


Alone In Our Secret

by AnnetheCatDetective



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Feeding, M/M, Repressed Edwardian Yearning, THE THRILL OF THE TOUCH OF AN UNGLOVED HAND
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:48:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 152,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22972768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/pseuds/AnnetheCatDetective
Summary: Starting RIGHT after the end of The Philately Fatality and progressing through a courtship.
Relationships: Jack Walker/Llewellyn Watts
Comments: 638
Kudos: 193





	1. Too Bad I Can't Get Anything Figured Out

**Author's Note:**

> When I started watching this show with my mother, I did not anticipate writing fanfic. It was very much HER show. Then they introduced Watts, who seemed designed to make William Murdoch look neurotypical, and I enjoyed the show more and would rec it to people who liked mystery shows, but it was still her show... but look. I have this list of traits that make me instantly more engaged with a character and it is:  
> -Autistic  
> -Likes food  
> -Jewish  
> -Gay  
> So you can see why I had to at least write one fic here. I mean, I always knew I would write for this fandom if anyone I knew got into it, but now it's for ME and not for a theoretical other person.  
> (Also I know it's weird seeing his first name a million times because he's barely on a first name basis with anyone, ever, but as he's the 3rd person POV, like... it's just what's RIGHT, but also I really do love the name Llewellyn. Okay I have rambled enough)

“And… if it-- if it interests you, to call me Llewellyn, then you should. If we… After all of this, if we saw each other again.” He adds, as he closes the door behind himself, uncertain. But there’s no indication he’s done wrong. The door was left open for him to follow.

“Well… yes, I-- if we saw each other again, it might be best to behave as if we didn’t meet during an interrogation.” Jack says-- not half so harsh as it might have been. “Though I-- That’s to say, if we did see each other again. If you think it likely.”

He’s never been in a man’s room-- not in this precise sense. Not that he can say what this precise sense is. Is it not enough that the man’s shirtsleeves are rolled to the elbow? Is it not enough to have seen his collar undone? The invitation may be purely social, polite-- just as his overture might be taken as a polite kind of friendly, a ‘thank you for your help and shall we put this awful business behind us with something nicer’ kind of friendly, and not a ‘you’ve awoken something in me’ kind of friendly.

It is not fair to say it was _Jack_ who awoke it, or not him alone. The subject of the investigation alone had been enough to raise old questions in his mind, a hundred things he’d once tried to put away, think no more on, change in himself. Perhaps had things been different, Scott might have awoken him as easily. And yet… despite his attempt at reaching out, Scott couldn’t extend him trust, and he had not been ready then to speak, to put a name to the common ground between them… he hadn’t known how. How to signal to him their similarity, the way other men must signal each other. But he’s never been any good at subtle social cues… He’d silently willed him to know and to understand and yet there was nothing… There was nothing on which to build. 

Jack, though… they may not have had a common profession to bind them, but he had found him so easy to connect to-- or, to long to connect to. He’s never found very many people _easy_ to connect to-- he’s lost all those he found easiest. He doesn’t like to think that this is a pattern. It’s one which must be broken, perhaps.

He had… noticed him. The first time they’d laid eyes on each other, it had been out-of-doors. The sunlight had been on him and his eyes had been lovely, like chips of sea glass, blue-green and soft. And Llewellyn… he had been struck, though not in the way poets write about. It didn’t feel quite like he had imagined, like he had tried to make himself feel, when a woman proved interesting company. Well, that hadn’t worked out at all… though things about her did strike him as interesting, or he would not have attempted a courtship, nor made so big a fool out of himself. He’s never had any trouble recognizing when a woman is beautiful, but that had always felt a matter of objective fact, not a thing that _struck_. But he had been struck on meeting Jack just the same, by some quality. By some combination of them.

“I am afraid I made the poorest of first impressions.” He touches the brim of his hat, nervous. Not removing it, he hopes, does not seem rude-- were he inclined to remove it, would it not be presumptuous to do so without invitation? Perhaps on some future visit, if-- but he gets ahead of himself. Concerning himself with the relative rudeness of doing anything at all with his hat has never been of much concern before now.

“Oh-- no-- You had your duty. I wouldn’t have thought better of you if you had been derelict in it.”

“Even so. I… I would have met you some other way. Or-- if I could not have done that, I… I found that I was… somewhat distracted by your freckles.”

“ _Oh_.” Jack drifts towards where he has two chairs, leaning against one and not yet sitting.

“That is to say… not-- when I say ‘distracted’, you may wonder, that I did not seem it. My mind sometimes seems to run along two tracks, and as I am stoking the engine of useful thought, there is also… That I noted your freckles, and… They are not orderly. Freckles. A human being, if given a pen and a paper, and asked to produce a random scattering of dots, would build… patterns. We would find it difficult to mimic nature’s hand. Is what I was thinking about, which I thought best unspoken. Or perhaps it still is. Best unspoken. Should I not have spoken it?”

“No, I-- I’m glad you did, I think. It’s only… I should warn you, I’m a dangerous friend to have, just now.” He says, even as he motions him to sit, sinking into his own chair.

“I can promise you I’ve had more dangerous company.” Llewellyn smiles, or, he thinks he smiles. He _means_ to smile, but sometimes he means to smile and people behave as if he hasn’t. “Or-- do you mean I have bothered you? I-- I know sometimes people do mean that, but I--” 

“I just mean… my proclivities being well-known to your inspector now, I… don’t imagine you should like to be seen speaking to me.”

“Then perhaps much depends on whether he takes his business elsewhere. Or perhaps it doesn’t. My time is my own, when I am not working. But what I came to say-- besides the matter of freckles, and… distraction, and--” He finds himself briefly distracted again-- Jack moves to rub at one elbow, they are near enough he can see the near-golden dusting of freckles along his forearm, moreover the motion of muscle and tendon, strong from his work. “I cannot offer you any commendation, for your help with the case. But I think it’s better your name remain out of things, anyhow. Still… without you, we might not have discovered our murderer was more for philately than philandery.”

Jack laughs, sudden, surprised, soft. “Clever.”

“I did work at it, some. On the way over. That is… so that I could tell you how the matter is resolved. I thought… it would be unfair, for you to read in the papers what you helped to set right, with no one considering your feelings.”

“I’m very pleased you did.”

“As for your friendship, and whether it is too costly… I do note that people prize costly things over uncostly ones.”

“I have been around costly things, and found most have an inflated value.”

“Mm. Well, a thing of great value _is_ worth the cost, but setting that aside… setting that aside. You begin from the assumption that I am a good friend to keep.”

“Aren’t you?” He smiles, unreadable-- unreadable _at present_ \-- and leans back in his chair slightly.

“I assure you, I have my entire life been much taken against. Firstly, for my face, which I am told is not a kind face.” Llewellyn begins listing out his objectionable points, tapping the pad of one index finger to the other. “And for my voice, which I am told is a disagreeable voice. And for my manners, which I am told are nonexistent. I am not thoughtful, nor politic, nor couth.”

“Those who would describe you so can't know you. And I met you only yesterday. You have seemed politic and kind and agreeable for this long.”

“Mm. Well, nevertheless, I have been reliably informed. Also that I am not happy company, that my sense of humor is lacking, also that things which ought to come naturally to me do not, that things which do come naturally to me ought not to, and that conversation with me is insufferable.”

“Stop, stop, if you continue to brag about yourself, I’m afraid I won't be able to take it. But tell me, which are your _bad_ points?”

“I’ve been known to be clumsy.”

Jack laughs, looking away a moment before turning back to him. “Clumsiness. That’s not so bad. And because you have trusted me--”

“I’m afraid among my bad points I ought to have listed that my nature is too trusting.”

“No-- I mean… I would like to thank you again, for having trusted me, when you had no reason to.”

“I had reason enough. And I know something of persecution. I consider it a grave injustice, but being as I have already been twice persecuted against for my own reasons, what’s one more?”

“I’m afraid if it’s for knowing me too well, it is too high a cost. I… have never been comfortable, with… parties, with candor, with… being known. I admire that kind of courage, but-- well, I repeat myself. I’m sure I’ve said all this before. And now I am... _known_ , you must think about that.”

“I have thought about it. I have thought… I have thought that you and I share a preference for quiet, and for privacy. I have no interest in clubs, not that there are any which would have me, for a variety of reasons. I… I have thought that you are honest. And admirable. And you extended some trust to me, to work with me in the first place. I don’t mean to ask you for anything-- that’s not… Even I am aware that the timing would be… callous, to say the least. You have lost someone, and-- I know what it is to… Even if he was not a lover at the time, to be the one to see him like that. For myself, I don’t… I don’t _know_ , what it is I want, whether I want… I want to know you. Perhaps in the morning I will… wake up, and wonder what I was thinking, and tell myself I have seen one good man forced from his position already, that I could put the noose around my own neck, and that it is… indiscreet even to speak to you. Maybe I won’t. But I-- But you did trust me, too, when you must have considered the possibility that I would go back on my word once I had what I wanted from you. Was it only desperation, or did you know?”

“I knew… when you took the chair beside me, and not across the table.” He smiles softly down at his folded hands. “I knew that I could trust you. It was a little thing. It was a little thing… and then another little thing. It was a few little things.”

“I should tell you…”

“Yes?”

“My handwriting is atrocious.” He finishes, feebly. It is not half of what he wishes he could say. But there are too many things he could say. That Jack’s friends would find their association not to be trusted, perhaps not to be tolerated, just as well as the other way around. That there are so many reasons not to like him-- some good, some unfair but not uncommon.

“Oh-- I… I would have imagined differently. You have… you have nice hands.”

Llewellyn looks at one, contemplating. It is his own, he doesn’t find he can judge its merits as with a stranger’s. 

“Well. I’m afraid they aren’t good at anything.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Handwriting may be struck off the list--”

“When I said I was clumsy, I mean… I mean it’s my hands, which are-- which are very clumsy. And I could never--” He makes the mistake of looking up, then. Jack looks back at him, and again he can’t read something in his expression. “Not like yours. You… work with them. It requires skill. Strength. The basic ability to… manipulate small objects. And given that your tools are sharp, and that your hands are all in one piece-- two pieces, technically?-- that is-- I would have to assume you are… good with them.”

“And you didn’t come to ask me for anything?” Jack rises, takes half a step closer.

“Oh-- no, I…” He stumbles to his own feet, hastily reviewing his words, this time with an eye towards possible double entendre. It is not… _smooth_ , as double entendre, he thinks, but then, he wouldn’t describe himself as smooth either way, so… “That is-- I am afraid I have a habit of offending… it’s led to a professional transfer before, as I said, I am… difficult to like--”

“I wasn’t offended.”

“And I can see myself out if I hav-- no?”

“No.”

“One thing I should tell you… it’s not the same, but… when my best friend was killed, I-- I found him. The men he was attacked with survived, and he… Well. It’s not the same. He put his life on the line in duty’s name, he had done before and would have done again, if-- But I was… not fast enough, or not good enough, to prevent… Finding someone you care about, regardless of the nature of the relationship… I just wanted to tell you. I know.”

“Does it ever leave you?”

He shakes his head. “I have lost a great many people, compared to the number I might have had to begin with. It never does. But… there comes an ease. The grief… it isn’t going anywhere. But it will be balmed over. Like a broken arm, set and healed. Agonizing at first, and then you bear it for so long that you forget what a life without pain was, and then one day you realize you move more freely and you ache less. And then, someday, you only feel it when a storm is coming.” 

“Thank you.” And his hand hovers very near to touching Llewellyn's elbow, for a moment, and his voice is soft.

“Mm. If you ever need to talk, about the shock or the grief… I will do my best not to be...” And he gestures to himself in whole. “Uncouth. Offensive.”

“I wasn’t offended.” Jack repeats, ducking his head. “I took it for a compliment. A professional compliment, if that’s how it was meant, which is hardly uncouth.”

Llewellyn nods, relieved. “I’m glad, then.”

“If you needed me, in a professional capacity… it wouldn’t be strange. If I lose your inspector’s custom, he wouldn’t need to know, if I gained yours.”

“Ah… well, I had been… experimenting, with vegetarianism. And, largely, of late, I--” He swallows, sets his jaw. “I find it makes it… easier. To keep kosher.”

This is the moment, where he expects he might see some coldness, some shuttering. He has had enough occasion to see it in the short time since discovering his roots. And yet, there is none. And if they did talk again, somewhere down the line, he could say that, having not been raised in the faith, he’s decided he doesn’t need to keep kosher. His trouble with meat was with the industry and not the morals nor the enjoyment, there really is nothing keeping him from going back, were it to someone he trusted. But he’d needed to know that he could say… that it wouldn’t matter.

“So you would have very little need of me, professionally, I imagine.” Jack nods. 

“It’s… all somewhat recent, for me, so… who’s to say? I may yet decide neither diet suits. But-- if I didn’t come to see you, at your business, that’s why. I’m sorry. It… would have been easy.”

“It would never have been easy.” Jack shakes his head. “But it would have been agreeable.”

“Yes.”

He walks him to the door. Not much of a walk, and he hesitates a moment before he turns the knob. 

“I would rather not list my own bad points. I have them… And after tonight, you and I have no real business together, and it would be unwise-- But I would rather… Please remember me by my good ones, if you have no other excuse to talk to me. Or discover my bad ones in time. The choice is yours.” And he opens the door. 

“Whether or not you list me your bad points, I would remember your better ones.” Llewellyn swings around to lean beside the doorframe just a moment. “You didn’t have to come back for me.”

“Oh, I disagree.” Jack smiles, and with Jack on the one side of his door and Llewellyn on the other, he holds out his hand. 

They both glance along the corridor. No other doors open, and yet the fact they could hangs heavy. Llewellyn takes his hand… but he thinks he might have taken it more softly, if there were no neighbors. He might have turned it in his, and lingered over the pattern of calluses of his trade. 

“Thank you again for coming by, Detective Watts.” Jack says-- another door opens, before Llewellyn can protest any formality.

“Well… I should thank you, again, for your assistance. And my apologies, for… your being mixed up in the unpleasantness.” And the neighbor is hovering to eavesdrop, he has to release Jack’s hand sooner than he would like, has to lose the warmth of it, the firm grip… “Er-- regards. I mean-- yes. Dreadful mess. But! The killer is off the streets, thanks in part to you, and the constabulary should be grateful.”

“Oh, my!” The neighbor takes the mention of a killer for an invitation to join them rather than merely lingering around her own front door. “Mister Walker, whatever did you stumble into!”

“Delivery.” He doesn’t miss a beat, though the lie is stiff at first. “I had made a large delivery, for a party. When I went to settle, I… I discovered the host.”

“Mm. Poor fellow.” Llewellyn nods. “Mister Walker was mistakenly named a person of interest, but thanks to his… keen eye, we were soon enough put onto the right path with it. And I just wanted to offer some-- well, thanks and apologies and… reassurance, that the matter is entirely settled, I hope with no further cause for worry.”

“And if I can ever be of help again, Detective.” Jack gives him a smile. He has a certain way of smiling. It is… tight, but not cold. Contained. That, he thinks he understands. Warm. That… he’s not sure.

“I’ll know where to find you.” He tips his hat, turns and heads off, isn’t sure if he’s walking too fast or not fast enough, but suddenly it’s hard to breathe. It's a long time before it gets any easier.


	2. The Overpowering Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another meeting, another chance to talk a while, and a deepening closeness.

“I know that look.” George drops down onto the bench beside him, and Llewellyn starts. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” He says quickly, trying to decide how much of his pretzel he could conceivably hide this supposed ‘look’ behind without garnering further suspicion. 

“Well, you can’t see the look on your face. I can. And you’ve lost it a bit now, so it’s no good directing you to look over at that window there for your reflection, you wouldn’t catch it. But it’s, if I dare say, a familiar look. Furthermore, you’re not eating.” He gestures to the pretzel-- which, indeed, has barely been picked at. “Girl trouble?”

George had been handling the other end of _that_ investigation from the start. He hadn’t been there to see if someone was too soft on the men from the victim’s parties, he hadn’t been there to meet Jack, he cannot know. 

“Not… no. Not as such.”

“Well you look awfully wistful for a man who’s not got girl trouble.”

“Just… worried about a friend.”

George nods. “In some trouble, is she?”

“I really don’t know.” He says distantly, unsure how to correct the misconception. Well… it’s not a misconception that he is… troubled, thinking about someone he could care for, someone he finds pleasing to look at, not because of symmetrical bone structure or classical beauty but because… he doesn’t know what. Because there is something in the way Jack _holds_ himself which is beautiful. Not that he doesn’t look perfectly fine from an objective standpoint, Llewellyn thinks it’s so. It’s just that he does not _feel_ objective. Not when he thinks of Jack. Of his contained but ready smile, and his forearms, and the way he had walked back into his cell, closed the door behind himself even, that enigmatic smile in place, and the warmth in his voice… and the agonizing feeling which had enveloped him, being so close, in the house...

“Well… if you find out, you can come and get me, and between the two of us surely… I mean, I’ve had my fair share of friends who’ve been in trouble, and sometimes it… Sometimes there’s nothing you can do. Or there is something you can do, but if _you_ do it, you’d be overstepping your bounds, she’d think! I mean, that’s the thing about ladies, they don’t want you solving all their problems for them, even if it’s too big a trouble to take on alone. But if I was to come along, and be useful, well! Then you can’t be said to be… thinking too much of yourself, or taking on something she didn’t ask you for, if she isn’t yet sure you’re that kind of friend.”

“ _Just_ a friend, George.”

“Well, now you may think--”

“I mean, not a lady friend. Just a friend. Not a lady.” He manages at last. It feels important to, somehow. 

“Oh! Oh, well, don’t I feel like an absolute goose--”

“It’s fine.”

“See, and I thought it was a lady-- but in all fairness to me, your expressions are very hard to read sometimes, and what looks like a romantic sort of wistfulness in one light could easily be chum-ly worry in another. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve worried about, oh… Henry, for example. Actually, usually Henry. I think _always_ Henry. And I would hate for someone to take that for a romantic wistfulness! I mean it’s perfectly normal to worry about a chum, even if he only gets into a fraction of the trouble Henry does--”

“It really is fine, George. Really. I’m just… hoping to hear that I have been… worrying over nothing. That everything’s fine.”

And what is he worried about? It was agreed he would face no charges, his name wouldn’t be involved. To his neighbors, he had been settling the bill for a large order for a party when he discovered the body, to his regular customers he had had to close briefly for some private emergency… and to his mother, well, whatever he might have said to her, he would know best how much she could bear hearing. It’s foolish to feel the kind of fear he’s been grappling with, and yet… and yet there are still people who know now, about him. He has been logged. And…

And there is something that sits on his chest and aches, when he thinks about the inspector. He may change butchers, one man would not be enough to ruin his business, but it isn’t about that, it’s about the fact that he’d once considered Jack trustworthy and respectable and now he does not, and it isn’t _fair_. Just for this… Maybe some of that ache is for himself, too. However much trust and respect he’s granted rises and falls, to be sure, and yet… Well, he’d seen with Scott, hadn’t he? How it would go for him. In an instant, he could forget everything he’d ever earned. It wouldn’t be about his success rate, his intelligence, his diligence, his willingness, his work… It wouldn’t be about anything he had done or dared. It would be about this, and it would be final. 

Maybe a lot of that ache is for himself.

It can be for both of them. With how much it hurts to imagine losing a man’s esteem in an instant, it must be worse to live it. Even when it’s the relationship between tradesman and customer, there is enough… sociability in such ties, that to have it dashed upon the rocks for such a small thing, to lie in bed at night and think you might never recover a goodwill you’d done nothing to lose. It may be less about the man whose goodwill you’d lost, more about the circumstance, but still. Still…

“Well, I hope your friend comes out of it all right, Sir.” George pats his shoulder. It’s meant to be comforting, he knows that it should be comforting. It sparks the question of whether any of the men he calls friend in his day-to-day would do as much if they knew the full truth of him.

“Thank you. I’m sure… I’m sure I’m dwelling on the worst case scenario.”

“We’ve seen a lot of worst cases come to pass, it’s only natural. But! We’ve seen best cases, too. Well, except with actual cases, where usually someone’s already died, but under those circumstances…”

“That’s… very helpful, actually.”

George beams, straightening up a little. “Is it? Oh, I’m glad. Well… I’d better get on with it. You have a good evening, Detective!”

“And you.” He nods, waving as George stands and heads on his way. 

He’s worrying too much about nothing. Jack is safe… he hasn’t heard otherwise. Whether it is safe to see Jack… is a different matter. 

He would meet the same fate Scott had, and be left with nothing. His career is so much of what he has left in his life. His friends would turn away from him once the whispers spread… it’s the suspicion that would hurt, the question of whether he had ever wanted things, which… The question of whether he’d ever pressed some unconsidered advantage, if his gaze had ever lingered in a locker room, if he had ever enjoyed a touch for more than it was meant to be. Not just at the stationhouse, he wouldn’t be able to enjoy any kind of club. Not that he’s ever been a man to belong to many, but he’d find himself running alone. A solitary sport, perhaps, but more enjoyable with a sort of a group.

And yet… he’s not so easy to put from his thoughts, Jack. What would it be to hold his hand in earnest? What would it be to be kissed? What would it be to set match to tinder, and let the thing he’s struggled so long to bury come to life? To be _awoken_ , in all his senses, to…

“Detective!”

Llewellyn shoots to his feet, turning, heart in his throat all of a sudden. He nearly fumbles the pretzel he’d yet again neglected in the course of his thoughts, but at least manages to recover that. He has the terrible feeling that if he had dropped it, he naturally would have picked it up, and that once more distracted by Jack’s freckles, or the shape of his smile, or the precise color of his eyes, he would forget that he had done so, and he would, perhaps to stop his mouth from some inanity, take a bite-- even a _large_ bite-- of that pretzel, which had been on the ground. Likely while making eye contact. And then his life would be _forfeit_ , there would be no recovering from biting lustily into a ground pretzel in front of the man.

“Mister Walker.” He greets, uncertain. He… _could_ call him ‘Jack’, but… out on the street? Not when he’s been hailed as ‘Detective’ first. “Um, would you like…?”

He gestures to the bench, and feels some clenched thing inside himself relax at the flicker of another careful smile, the slightest nod. 

“Oh, for a minute. If I’m not intruding. Is this supper?”

“Mm. My current landlady doesn’t cook. Which is just as well, it saves me the trouble of having to separate out what I would and wouldn’t eat from a set menu… and rates are lower if you’re paying for the room alone and not to be fed, I imagine.”

“Not very homey, though. And you still have to eat _somewhere_.”

“No. Well. I prefer to eat several small meals over the course of a day over sitting down to two or three heavy ones. I find it’s easier to keep mobile.”

“I suppose you have to be ready to leap into action with little notice.”

“It’s usually not _that_ exciting. Or-- it’s rarely so dangerous. But it does involve being on the move. Ah-- can I offer you…?” He pulls a second, carefully wrapped pretzel from inside his jacket. 

“If you’ll need that later--” Jack starts, then stops, eyes widening slightly, gaze flickering from Llewellyn to the pretzel, to the slim space between them on the bench, to something just past Llewellyn’s shoulder, before settling somewhere around his hairline-- much to his relief, as he thinks had Jack looked him in the eye, he would never be able to continue, or breathe. Jack bites his lip, just a moment. “I wouldn’t be imposing?”

“You would not be. I… I took the liberty of-- I thought, if you took the streetcar home, then it wouldn’t matter, because you wouldn’t see me. And that if you bicycled, you might take a longer route if the road was smoother or the scenery more pleasant, but that if you walked, you would come by the most direct way between your shop and the house. And so then I hoped that you had walked today.”

It’s too much, it’s too much. He had thought it would be less intrusive than calling on him at home, but he’s put so much planning into it, is it too much? He’d picked an area where, by such time as Jack reached him, the shops on the street would be closed and the street virtually empty, though anyone walking home by the same route who passed them, they could fall silent a moment. They would be just two men stopping for a bite on the same bench of an evening. He’d planned that part very carefully, but now he can’t help overthinking it.

“A chance encounter.” Jack lets a little more of his smile slip out of its confinement. He takes the offered pretzel carefully. Their hands brush, just barely, through the handkerchief it had been wrapped in. “No one to catch you calling at the boarding house, no one to question it… How fortuitous, then.”

“I wanted to see how you were holding up.”

“That’s very kind of you. I… it’s funny, when we ended things, I… I could only think of the things about him I didn’t like. The things that hurt me-- never meaning to. I mean… he was puckish, and he was… he was never one to be tied down. And he couldn’t appreciate how different life was outside of his bubble… but, he always tried so hard to open that bubble to as many people as he could. He was _generous_. With everything. Except for the parts of himself that I thought…” He shrugs, taking a slow bite. “The falling-out was understated, but I still came to regret what I said. I thought… it would have been nice to be friendly again. Not as we were. I’d learned too much about myself in the time we had known each other to think I would be happy like that. But friends.”

“And now, you’re left never knowing if you would have had his forgiveness.”

“Oh, no. I know he would have forgiven me. But he never got to hear my apology, and that… I regret. I should have made the decision to apologize sober, in the light of day, seen him away from all that. But I had no idea he was in that kind of trouble. I never… But even if I had understood his other world, if I’d cautioned him, he’d have only taken wilder risks. In every sphere, I think, he was the same man at heart. He wanted to be caught out… he wanted to leave people with no choice but to see him, acknowledge him. For one thing… or for another. He must have felt… under-estimated. I know some of his friends saw him as a dilettante. Someone with money, but no real… _sense_ , or depth. Whatever scheme it was, that’s what I believe. I mean, it can’t have been about money. I’ve been turning it over in my head, and I do believe… he wanted to do something they would have to reckon with. Even if it cost him his friends, his reputation, even if it cost him everything. And then, it did.”

“Mm. All good men have their fatal flaws, I suppose. I had wondered at his motive. I don’t suppose anyone else cared to look too deeply, given the outcome, but given his financial comfort… it was just one of those things that tugged at the back of the brain. Your explanation I trust to be the right one.”

“It’s likely the only one you’ll get.” Jack shrugs. “So you may as well.”

“I trust it to be right because you knew the man. Not because I won’t have another answer and I want to sleep better at night.”

For a moment, Jack almost says something, or Llewellyn thinks he will, but he takes a bite instead, and it seems perhaps wisest to do the same, rather than ask what he’s thinking. He turns his attention to his pretzel a moment, and when he glances back over to Jack, he catches one of those smiles, even as he’s chewing and swallowing.

“Mm?” He gets the bite down as quickly as possible, managing to remember _not_ to speak with his mouth full. “What?”

“Nothing?”

“Crumbs on my face, or?”

“No, no.” Jack looks down, tearing another bite from his own, his cheeks just barely pinking. “Nothing like that.”

“Ah. Well… as long as nothing’s…”

“It… has occurred to me, since last we spoke… you would have had to look very closely, to find yourself distracted by my freckles, as pale as they are at present.”

“... Ah.” His mind stalls.

“Was it when you asked me yourself, about where I’d been the night before?”

Llewellyn nods, shoving another bite into his mouth before he can bring up having noticed his eyes then as well. Jack just smiles, and pops the bite he’d torn free into his mouth. Which is… distracting, also. In a way simply eating is not. His lips and his fingertips… the sudden, unbidden idea that it would be pleasant to be fed by him that way. He bolts down two more bites and tries not to think about it.

It’s deepening into a lovely evening, and he is sharing a bench with a man he likes. He’s liked men, of course, in the abstract sense. He’s been attracted to a couple, nothing serious, nothing he couldn’t ignore. Appreciate a little male beauty and then move along, pretend it meant nothing, say it won’t happen again. There have been men he’s desired a closeness with, that wasn’t about sex-- a desire for camaraderie, for the sense of belonging which had eluded him so much of his life. He’s not used to _this_ , to wanting it all. He wants to know Jack, to spend time with him, discuss the things friends discuss and do the things friends do… but he wants more than that. Things he’s never allowed himself to imagine much. Things he’s dreamt. And things… soft things. He watches lovers stroll arm in arm, and share secret smiles, and exchange little tokens, words, expressions of care. He sees people live in a world he’s not allowed, and he told himself after his failed experiment that he would live with that, that he didn’t want conventional things. But there are some things he wants… and he wants them with Jack.

The only question is, does he dare pursue them further?

“I should return the favor, next time.” Jack breaks the silence once more, gesturing with the remains of his pretzel. 

“Oh-- I… I don’t know.” He says, heart thudding harder, and then _twisting_ at the way Jack’s expression shifts. “I mean, I know. That I would… enjoy that. Not when I might be free, or if-- if it would be inconvenient somehow, when I am. I… I didn’t think ahead that far.”

“And you’re a man accustomed to thinking ahead.” It’s a question, and not a question, the way he says it. As if he already knows any answer Llewellyn could give.

“At times. It depends. I… can enjoy the unexpected. But I like to take care, I suppose.”

“I can appreciate that. I think…” Jack stares at his hands, picking at the last of the pretzel. “Care is… important. It’s vital. But… a little room for the unexpected isn’t so bad. I… I always tried to… _plan_ for things. Control things. It was something… I had to learn to be flexible. I’m not certain how well I’ve done. Better than I was.” He glances sidelong at Llewellyn. “So. The first of my bad points, but… one I am trying to strike the balance with.”

“Not such a bad point. Or, if it is, you’re certainly not alone in it.”

“It feels safer, at first, controlling things… but… I put myself in a box. I’m not very good at living outside of it, but it’s no place to build a life. With Owen… he was sure I would be happier if I abandoned the whole-- well, everything. Everything about how I lived. He was well-meaning… short-sighted. Not right, but not always wrong. Now… I want to find that balance. But I’m still finding my way. I haven’t got answers… but I think it’s better to know people, than not to know them.”

“I know what you mean. About knowing people. Finding a home with people… not being adrift in the world, wondering who you are and where you belong. I’m… still finding my way as well. With different parts of myself. Deciding… Detective Scott was forced to give up his position.”

“Yes… I’m not surprised.”

“Knowing people… being seen with people, in the wrong places, the same would happen to me. But I know you. Or, I’m getting to. I haven’t come to think better of that.” 

“Are you in very much trouble?”

“Not too much.” He takes another bite. “Mm-- lucky for me, I took a bet on an honest man.”

“Honest.” Jack snorts, turning away. Turning back. “That’s the second time you’ve described me that way. You _did_ catch me lying to the police. Repeatedly.”

“Not without reason.”

“You were the one… the first time. When did you decide I was an honest man?”

“Mm. Well. I didn’t think that the inspector would patronize a dishonest butcher. He is shrewd enough for that. Therefore, up until… all of this, he must have considered you an honest man, and in… certain human matters, I would consider his judgment sound. That you had to protect yourself… An honest man is not the same as a man who never tells a lie. He just has reasons for it that allow him to overcome his own disinclination. Also… you do not seem a man entirely at ease with his lies. Oh, the important ones, which no doubt you’ve had to tell before. But on the whole… you might have lied to me in fear for your reputation. You would not have cheated me.”

“Oh.”

“I was… not easy. With pressing you. I didn’t believe in your guilt, just your presence at the party.”

“No? Not for a moment?”

“I assumed if it was going to be you, you’d have taken a knife from the kitchen, possibly a letter opener if it was unplanned. One doesn’t expect a butcher to commit murder with a blunt object.”

Speaking of blunt objects, the conversation catches up to him in a crash and he regrets everything. Jack just stares at him a moment, an agonizing moment, before the smile slowly returns.

“I’ve never thought about how I would kill someone. God willing it’s not something I’ll ever need contemplate. But I suppose you’re right, it’s… not very thematic. It would never fly in a novel.”

“Mm. No, indeed not.”

“I don’t expect you read detective novels-- it wouldn’t offer much escape, and you’d be preoccupied with what they got wrong. I can’t imagine reading a novel about butchery.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it, no. I don’t know if you’ve read The Jungle--”

“That’s why you’re a vegetarian?”

He nods, surprised, with a little smile of his own. “You’re not that far off. Mm… or it makes the argument for your profession being a necessary one, in the face of industrialization. Though I _did_ appreciate the, ah… the kosher aspect, of just giving it up. But given my preference for small meals spaced apart, I doubt I would mind simply eating every dish separately. Actually, I did reconsider the wisdom of my commitment to vegetarianism.”

“Since the last time we spoke?”

Llewellyn shakes his head, but even by the time he’s entirely finished off the final bites of his pretzel, Jack continues to look at him expectantly.

“Over the course of this conversation?” He asks, once Llewellyn has swallowed. 

“You’ll laugh.”

“Never.”

“In Paxton’s house.”

“When I found your evidence?”

He shakes his head. “When I saw your photograph on the wall, and my inspector pointed you out as his butcher.”

Jack turns and leans forward, one hand coming up to cover his mouth, but there’s no mirthful shake to his shoulders, no other signs of a suppressed laugh. Just a sudden flush to his cheek. 

“That is not true.” He accuses. Not upset. Not audibly.

“It was a fleeting thought.”

“That is not true, and you--” A little shake of the head, a quick glance, the least constrained smile he’s seen yet-- though only for a flash. “My photograph. Absolutely not.”

“Well, I didn’t take it into serious consideration, but the thought was there.”

Jack rises, looking back over his shoulder to Llewellyn. “It’s late, I should-- Are you going this way?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.” He swallows, dusting away the crumbs before getting to his feet. “I could… escort you. Not that you need-- Not that I-- To the front door of your building?”

“To the front door of my building.” Jack nods. “I would like that.”

Was this a date? He’s not sure, it’s not a thing that can be asked. If it was, it was not much of one, maybe, but there is an _elation_ at the thought of repeating it, simple as it was.

Sweethearts out for an evening pass them by. Are _they_ sweethearts? He doesn’t think so-- he thinks they would need to be able to discuss that. He’s not yet certain if he can, but he’s certain that he _wants_. Whether they could be…

This stretch had not been busy, a little ways down where the restaurants are, there are more people, and then fewer again around apartment blocks and boarding houses. No one on the street in front of Jack’s building, to prevent their pausing for a word.

“Thank you, for wanting to see me.” Jack says, and his expression is unreadable, or perhaps Llewellyn isn’t ready to read it. “I’m glad I was on your way. And I would like to-- If we run into each other again. Buy you a pretzel.”

“Thank you, for joining me. It was… pleasant.”

“Oh-- before you go!” He takes a step forward, halts and then presses on, coming to stand before Llewellyn, beneath the street lamp. “I nearly let you walk off with crumbs. I should have seen before, but it’s the wrong side.”

And then, he reaches up, hand brushing gently over the lapel of his jacket. Slow, deliberate. Llewellyn glances down, watching Jack’s hand make one last pass, this time with definitely no crumbs. Not that he would protest.

“I should thank you.” He says, breathless. He feels too many things at once. Clammy, too warm, lightheaded, pulse pounding, limbs… curiously detached from his sense of self. This is a little more like what he’d imagined… perhaps not precisely it, but closer, to the kind of feelings poets put down. It’s less elegant when it’s happening to you, he thinks. 

“Don’t mention it.” Jack’s hand drops away. “Have a good evening, Detective. _Llewellyn_.”

“Jack. And you.” He takes a step back, touching the brim of his hat. “Pleasant dreams.”

Jack passes out from under the glow cast by the lamp, he can no longer see the hint of his smile, but he can see the wave he gives him, can return it before he turns to go, back the way he came.

“Detective Watts?”

“Mm?” He turns, to see Jack once more standing within the lamp’s light.

“I thought I was on your way.”

“You were my way.” He shrugs, smiling. “Goodnight.”


	3. I Don't Want to Live Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The taking-shape of a courtship goes forward, despite the lingering presence of fear.

He must approach the door five times, unable to enter, leaping back with a nod and an awkward wave at any sign of another customer coming in and out, until finally he screws up his courage, grabs the door handle, and enters with… not a surfeit of grace. 

He’s used to having some degree of mastery over his limbs, at least most of the time, is perhaps not graceful but usually not grace _less_ , and yet he’s not half a moment in Jack’s presence before he finds himself… ungainly. His equilibrium is off. 

They are, if only for a moment, the only two people in the shop. 

“Llewellyn.” Jack’s smile is very nearly unguarded, as he wipes his hands on his apron “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I have decided to try returning to the, ah, world of the omnivore.” He claps his hands together, approaching the counter. He looks at everything laid out therein and realizes that without an oven to his name, he will perhaps not be able to provide _much_ patronage.

“A carefully thought out decision, I’m sure.”

“Sick of peanut butter.” He admits with a shrug, watching the look on Jack’s face. “And no kitchen for preparing more complicated substitutes.”

“Peanut butter? Isn’t that food for... convalescents? Toothless convalescents?”

“Well, if you put it on bread, it becomes more mobile.”

“... That sounds disgusting.” Jack says, and holds up a finger. Llewellyn waits, as he ducks into the back of his shop, returning only to press a small package into Llewellyn’s hands. “Please. For _my_ sake. It’s, uh-- There’s another butcher I know. We sometimes split a cow, and-- Anyway, I don’t know. I just thought… Um, and that’s already cooked, so. When I asked, or, when I mentioned I had a friend who… He said if you were strict about it, keeping-- well, he said ‘the kashrut’, and I just assumed it’s the same thing?-- then there was nothing I could really do, in my shop, that you’d be able to eat, but he sent that with me.”

He gapes at Jack just for a moment, everything sinking in. On the off chance that they would meet, that he would have an opportunity in the near enough future to give it to him, and that he would be eating meat at the time, Jack had gone to a kosher butcher and had apparently _asked_ about how to properly prepare meat, and had then gotten what smells like roast chicken. For him.

“And it’s chicken.” Jack confirms, hands twisting together. “In case red meat still turns your stomach. I tried to store it where it wouldn’t touch anything, if that--”

“I’m-- no, it’s-- thank you. I’m not very strict, I don’t think. I-- I didn’t--” He fumbles over his words. He’s already on some kind of emotional high and this is hardly the time or place to talk about being an orphan and his complicated relationship with his past and the struggle to find which things carry meaning for him as he reconnects to his family’s heritage, but he has to say _something_. He has to say something, about the enormity of the gesture, but how to even approach what it means to him without going too far? He scratches at his brow, searching out words and coming up empty, until he’s left with the simple and the obvious, but… the heartfelt. “ _Thank_ you, Jack. Really.”

“Well. I thought… it would be my turn to treat you to something.”

A roast chicken breast, Llewellyn thinks, is much more _something_ than a pretzel. He has been at a loss for words before, but not at this scale. It’s never felt like this. 

Being at a loss for words and being not immune to the aroma of roast chicken and being some couple of hours since he had grazed on something last, he settles on showing the depth of his appreciation by tearing into the package. It’s _good_ , it’s just good enough to take his attention ever so momentarily from Jack, long enough to tear off a large bite and revel in it. 

“Mm-- my compliments to your, um, colleague.” He nods, pointing at the chicken. “... What?”

“What what?”

“You have that look again. I was wondering what it meant.”

“You’re the detective.” Jack smiles at him, leaning over his counter. “I’m sure you’ll figure out what my looks mean.”

“You have a lot of confidence in me.”

“Yes, I do.” He says, and it’s slow and deliberate in a way which means _something_ , but Llewellyn is out of his depth with this. Everything he knows about reading people is… well, _learned_ , not the way other people seem to know, to exchange subtler looks and understand each other. He made a study of it, and where solving crimes is concerned, he’s a very good study of human nature and its expression, these softer things are a mystery. 

Before he can say anything else, the bell tinkles, they pull back from each other, Jack standing straight behind his counter, Llewellyn shoving another bite of chicken into his mouth. 

He sees the hat first, which can hardly be helped. Magenta fabric in neat box-pleats around the broad brim, milk-white ostrich plumes fanning out from the center, and then rosettes of the same fabric. And then he sees the woman _beneath_ the hat and the world shifts on its axis. He glances over at Jack, who looks pale. 

“Mister Walker, whatever _did_ you say to my husband?” Margaret Brackenreid bustles up to the counter, with the sort of exasperated and long-suffering look he has normally seen her wear. “Did you know he’s asked me to go to another butcher? As if I’m going to pick up and go all the way across town just to find one! And I’m _certainly_ not going to Preston Slocombe, that man is a _cheat_!”

“I do have several customers who’ve found Mister Slocombe… unsatisfactory.”

“I knew it, I knew it! He keeps his finger right on the scale. Well! If he wants to go somewhere else, I’d tell him he could do it himself, but you can’t trust him with the groceries, he-- oh!” She notices Llewellyn, he’d been hoping somehow she might not. “Detective! Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Missus Brackenreid.” He switches which hand he’s holding his chicken in, so that he can tip his hat with a somewhat cleaner hand. “Ah, and… you know what the inspector is like. Once his temper settles it might not matter at all, I’m sure it’s nothing of import. But… until then, we can keep this our little secret. You found another butcher, if he asks, and we were never here.”

“Well, you _are_ a help. That awful Slocombe’s the only other butcher within a reasonable distance of us! Honestly! And if he thinks-- It’s a _sports_ thing, isn’t it?” She asks suddenly. 

“Oh-- yes.” Jack nods. “We, uh, have… different teams.”

“I knew it! Because when I asked him why on _earth_ we should switch butchers now that we have someone to go to who isn’t Preston Slocombe, he just said ‘never you mind, Margaret, and do as I say’, which means he’s being _totally_ unreasonable.” She shakes her head, feathers on her hat bobbing wildly. “He always says just that when he knows he has the wrong of something.”

“Isn’t that just like a man?” Jack clucks. 

“Mm, and I bet you Preston Slocombe wouldn’t have the self-awareness or sympathy you do about _that_! Anyway… oh, what’s good today?”

“I have _just_ the thing.” He ducks down, selecting a tray from under the counter. “Frenched this rib roast just this morning, have a look at that. Or you can just as easily have chops. If you want to know what I’m taking home for myself tonight, there you have it.”

Llewellyn could duck out, should duck out, but he finds himself leaning on the counter and just… absently watching Jack work, and eating the rest of his chicken as he watches. Watches him trim and weigh and wrap everything, elegant in the flow of his work. When he’s at work with the tools of his trade, he’s a study in economy. The weight and the sharpness of the blade do the work, wielded well, taking less work than an unpracticed hand might expend… But when he wraps her order, there is… there’s something _more_. There’s a little more freedom, a little more flourish. It’s still neat and practiced motions as the paper is wrapped around each separate parcel, but then when he ties them off with twine, there’s… there is something to the flick of a wrist, to the way he makes perfect, even little bows as if it’s nothing at all to do so. When he marks them, it’s with that same elan, when he wipes his hands and tots up the amounts…

“Fascinating…”

“What’s that, Detective Watts?” Mrs. Brackenreid asks.

“Mm? Oh-- nothing. Just… taking in the, ah…” He gestures. “Process. I don’t think I’ve ever really paid much attention to how it all… works. The system.”

“You detectives… you’re always so interested in the oddest things.” 

He scratches at his ear, shrugging. “A hazard of the occupation.”

“Oh, don’t I know it. I can’t imagine how eccentric my Thomas might have become if he didn’t have me. As for Detective Murdoch, sometimes I think it was almost too late for that man, before he convinced Doctor Ogden to marry him. You know, that’s what _you_ need.”

“I don’t think Detective Murdoch would be very appreciative of my asking his wife to marry me.”

“Your _own_ wife.” She scoffs. “Someone to… keep an eye on you, and take up some of your mental energy, so you’re not hanging around being fascinated by tradesmen. I mean, and no offense.”

“Oh, I don’t know if that would--” He swallows, cannot-- _cannot_ \-- so much as glance towards Jack. “If that would make much difference.”

“It makes a great deal of difference. You men need taking care of. Feeding.”

“Well. I won’t argue with the feeding.” He allows, hears Jack’s smothered laugh. “Good afternoon, Missus Brackenreid. Er-- give my best to John. I’ve heard he’s doing well now.”

“I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear you said hello.” She nods.

“Before you go--” Jack says, and Llewellyn turns when Mrs. Brackenreid does, catches the smile on his face and the way his eyes dance, as he slides one last package across the counter. “A little something, for one of my best customers-- and something that might soften your husband up, if need be.”

“And _he_ wanted me to go across town!” She rolls her eyes dramatically, before adding it to her armload with a smile. “Good afternoon.”

They both watch her go, before it seems as if a breath can be fully let out. 

“That was close.” Jack says, though not with as much trepidation as he might.

“Mm. Better your work than mine, but… too close.”

Jack laughs, leaning once more against the counter. “Come by at closing, it’ll be quieter.”

“Maybe.”

“You… you will, I hope. It doesn’t have to be tonight.”

“I will, then.” He tips his hat. “Some night when I’m free to. To-- to walk with you again, if you wanted.”

Jack nods, and that’s all he thinks he really needs, to feel himself relax into an answering smile. 

It’s a couple of nights before he gets the chance. Hangs around outside the shop as one by one the ‘Closed’ signs are turned along the street, the shutters drawn. When he’s seen the delivery boy or shop assistant go home for the night, he slips into the shop.

“Sorry, we’re closed!” Jack calls from the back. 

“Good.” Llewellyn smiles, coming to meet him by the counter. He’s… well, nervous. He’d finally gotten away from work early enough that he could freshen up a little, and he feels…

Odd. 

Clean-shaven, which is… he doesn’t think he likes it. He doesn’t enjoy shaving. He couldn’t keep being quite _this_ clean-shaven for long, he doesn’t think, but he’d thought he ought to, tonight. He wants to court Jack, or be courted, or maybe it’s more of a mutual courting, he’s not sure. He doesn’t know how any of it works, but he thinks about the way Jack smiles at him sometimes, how it feels just for him. He’d like to show he _can_ \-- at least periodically-- make an effort that’s just for Jack.

He’d also stopped for a boutonniere, on his way, which is new, which is odd, which is… too much? The girl working in the florist along his way had asked if he had an occasion, and he had lied and said it was just a whim. She’d recommended an orange rosebud, against his suit, though he’s not sure what made orange jump out at her any more than pink or lavender would. 

He is… curiously in anticipation of what Jack will think of him, waiting there, hat in his hands. When Jack emerges from the back, he’s just drying his hands, shirtsleeves rolled up, and he stops, stops dead in his tracks and looks Llewellyn over a long moment. And then, he strides forward, drops his towel to the counter as he moves past it.

“Evening.” Llewellyn smiles nervously. 

“Well, look at you.” Jack reaches up to neaten a lapel, before he re-fixes his own sleeves and buttons his cuffs. There’s one dim light, the shades down, and if they weren’t surrounded by meat it would feel very romantic. “I’m glad you came.”

“I-- I’ve been… I’ve been thinking about you.” The words come out uncertain, his brow knits, he’s lucky not to have done any structural damage to the brim of his hat with his worrying, before Jack gently takes it from his hands, and sets it on his head. “Oh--”

“Just let me grab my jacket, and we can go.”

“Well, can I help you?”

Jack looks at him, startled and then pleased, before nodding and grabbing his jacket, allowing Llewellyn to hold it for him as he slips into it. He straightens it over Jack’s shoulders, lets his touch linger a little. Some part of him is always afraid of crossing some line he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know how to escape that fear. This is Jack, who has promised him the chance to learn whatever secret meaning his smiles hide, who had gone to a kosher butcher to be sure of finding something he thought Llewellyn could eat, and who first and foremost is himself a homosexual, he _knows_ he’s a homosexual, he’s not going to turn away in disgust if a man desires him. 

“I’m sorry I can’t take your arm, out there.” He murmurs, turning back to him, their bodies close. “I would like to. I would have liked to, the last time.”

“So would I.”

“I know… old friends sometimes do. But… it would be different, for us. Anyone who knows us, who saw us… There are a lot of things I think neither of us would dare, but… is it better or worse to talk about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“There are still things we could-- I-- that is…”

“I would like to.” He nods, reaching past Jack to open the door for him, to hold it as he turns the last lamp the rest of the way down. He stands by as Jack locks up, hands jammed into his pockets. He keeps them there as they start walking, just to keep from reaching out.

“I saw Glen.” Jack volunteers, as they move down a quiet street. 

“Glen… Detective Scott? Ah, not… not detective.” He frowns. “How is he?”

“He has someone looking after him, for now… he’s trying to be strong, but it’s not easy. You’d understand better than anyone how much the job can mean, I imagine. We… I was always on the periphery of that circle, we didn’t know each other well, before. But something about being jailed together.” He chuckles, dry and bitter. “There’s… ah, there’s going to be a, a book club.”

“Book club?”

“It’s a little more my speed than… you know, those types of parties. Sometimes they even talk about the book. You show up with a copy of Plato’s Symposium and you’re permitted entry. There’ll be an informal dinner… If you wanted to speak with him again, he’d be there.”

A book club. No music, no dancing, just men with… serious looking texts, a glass of something here, a cigar there… a perfectly reasonable gathering of men. No one would question not inviting women to discuss philosophy. Safe. He could… he could do that. And he feels he owes Detective Scott something, some word. 

“Yes, I think I’d… Plato’s Symposium?”

“Not exactly light reading, I know.”

“Mine’s not translated into English, will that be all right?”

Jack halts. “You read Greek?”

“A little. I undertook it recently. I never received a classical education… I thought I should try to teach myself. Er, not that I-- I mean… I read things other than… Greek.”

Jack takes his arm. He only squeezes once, like anyone might in the course of a friendly conversation, he doesn’t hold it for even a moment. A single touch on an empty street, but the way it feels… so different from having just a friend do the same. His heart is thudding and some of it is fear, but more of it is elation, and their eyes meet and for a moment he feels as if he could do anything in the world. That feeling passes quickly, the cold reminder in its wake. He can’t do anything in the world, he can’t reach out too much. He can’t _say_ too much. Even when they’re alone, any time they pass by windows where people could be looking out, every time they pass other pedestrians, every time a car goes by, or a bicycle… 

“How do you do this?” He asks, and his voice barely comes out, he faces the horrifying possibility of having to raise it, repeat himself, but Jack just gives him a look.

“Trust me, I’ve been there. Still… still there, mostly. I can take a message to Glen if you would like. You don’t have to go, if it’s too much, too soon.”

“No. I need to see him. And I _want_ to go. I just mean… all of it.”

“Llewellyn… I would never want to-- to pull you into anything that was too much.” Jack says, earnest. He doesn’t touch him a second time, but Llewellyn can see the aborted motion, the desire to.

“You won’t. It’s just… every time I think I’m resolved towards something, there’s another step back. And I’m afraid… will it always be like this? Does it ever leave you?”

“No. But… there comes an ease.” He says, his smile soft and sad as he repeats Llewellyn’s own words back. They’d been talking about grief, then. Perhaps grief and fear are not so different. “You learn what you can and can’t bear. Sometimes the answers will surprise you. The first time… the first time someone approached me, I thought my answers were one thing. Now, they’re another entirely. Even over the course of a week, I’ve changed. There’s no one right or wrong. There’s just every man’s own balance between self and safety.”

“If I lost my career, I would have… very little in my life. That’s what I keep coming back to. It wouldn’t only be a job, it would be the closest thing to a family that I have. I can’t lose another family. But I-- I can’t shut out the things that I feel. For so long… for so long, I tried. And now I’m living in twilight all of the time, unable to step in either direction. Unsure as to which direction is night and which is day.”

“Unsure?”

“I know where I want to be… but if this is twilight, if these are the two worlds I could choose between, then what I want is some impossible dawning. I want not to have to choose between the sides of myself. I want not to have to choose between people I care for.”

“There’s a beauty in twilight.” Jack shrugs, tone careful. “Look around us now. The moon on the rise, the purple clouds, the empty street. Birds singing goodnight to the world. Lights in windows where people sit down to their suppers. Is it such a hell, to live in between?”

“Mm.” He leans back, takes in the darkening sky. “Much to think about.”

“Yes. But you have time, to think. I-- I won’t let anyone rush you. Myself included.”

He turns to him, surprised into smiling. “Oh, you’ll protect me? From the hordes of book club-goers who are bound to find all… _this_ , irresistible?”

“I’ll protect you.”

He is just as quickly surprised out of smiling, by the weight behind the promise. He couldn’t let him, not if it put him in a worse position to do so… no, he would do absolutely anything to ensure Jack’s safety. If it came to it, if he could, he would. He’s just afraid that there’s some tipping point where he might lose more than he can survive losing. He’s afraid of learning what it is he can’t live without by the losing of it.

“Jack…” He hesitates. “You can-- you can… urge me forward, now and then. I won’t take it as rushing. If you… if there are things you would-- have from me. Please don’t think you-- that because I am new, you couldn’t… Because I--”

A door opens, nearby, he goes quiet, they walk on.

“You know… I think, sometimes, about what I could have done different.” Jack says eventually. “If I could have handled any part of what happened with Owen… better.”

“You were in shock.”

“At first, I wished I’d done everything differently. When you showed up, with that photograph, and I had to face it all, I hated every single choice I’d made, or not been able to make, that put me there… But now… I’m not sorry that things happened the way they did. I mean, it’s-- it’s awful that it happened. And it felt awful to… I’m not sorry now, that… that I lost my shoe, that you showed up with it. That we needed each other.”

“I’m sorry, that you had to be so deeply involved in such an unpleasant business… but, I am not sorry, that you-- stood out to me. That we needed each other.” 

“Speaking of… the photograph? Do you know what’s happened to it? Now that they don’t need it as evidence, I would rather… I don’t know. I can’t exactly walk into the stationhouse and request it, but I don’t… I don’t like the thought of it sitting there. Or being thrown out with the rubbish, where someone could find it.”

“Ah. The photograph. No, I… don’t think anyone would miss it, if I… got it back to you.” He scratches at the back of his head, looking away. “Those things have a way of going missing, once a case is closed, people… lose track of photographs. Possibly it’s already wandered out of evidence.”

“ _Llewellyn_.”

“I’ll get it to you!”

“Only if you won’t get in trouble for it-- if anyone is keeping track of it, please don’t. It… it can sit there, no one will go back and look at it, it’s fine. I just wondered if it was the sort of thing they might release. And then I thought I didn’t want to push my luck. If it’s destined for the rubbish bin, I’d rather have it, but please don’t-- don’t do anything risky just because it would please me.”

“Mm. Yes. When I say ‘possibly it’s already wandered out of evidence’, it’s… already wandered out of evidence. I will get it to you.”

“Already? Wait, how long have you had it?”

“Once we brought you in for questioning, it was no longer of any use to the investigation. I didn’t think… it didn’t need to be a matter of public record.”

“And… you’ve kept it?”

He cringes a little, but the tone isn’t accusatory, and when he risks glancing back towards Jack, he’s smiling. Even so it’s impossible to shake the sick, worried feeling. That he ought to be in trouble, for keeping a man’s picture. That he hadn’t asked. That it was… perhaps not _intimate_ , but not un-intimate, to have taken.

“I’ll get it to you.” Llewellyn promises.

“I would appreciate that. But… perhaps I could… come up with a suitable replacement.”

“I’ll get it to you.” He repeats, feels a little helpless, can’t seem to say anything but. 

“I know you will.” Jack says, and shifts so that their elbows brush, just for a few steps. “Thank you. Llewellyn?”

“Mm?”

“How far out of your way am I taking you?”

“Oh-- ah…” He turns around, walking backwards a few steps as he tries to draw out the path he’d take home. “I’m back just a little ways, and then a turn, and then-- it’s not important.” He swivels back around towards Jack. “I like walking.”

“Long walk.”

“Doesn’t feel that way.” He shrugs, and shuffles closer, so that their elbows brush once more. “Hardly seemed to notice the ground beneath my feet, last time.”

Jack nudges him, laughing softly and turning away. Turning back. 

“Walk me to my door.”

“I thought I was.”

“To _my_ door.” He takes his arm, they freeze in place. “Upstairs.”

“Upstairs.” Llewellyn nods. Jack’s hand leaves his arm, leaves a spot where his touch used to be, that he can still feel, or at least it seems he can.

He’s been here before… he’d chosen to come, he’d had Jack’s address and he’d thought… he’d thought he couldn’t let him go without seeing… without seeing if there was something there. He’d thought he felt it, down in the cells, the house… he’d been surer, when Jack had come back. The thought of not seeing him again had been enough to propel him into action, into holding a hand out. Surely just walking him up to his door can’t be so terrifying, after that. He’s been inside his home!

And yet, it’s different now. His palms sweat, anticipating. There’s no reason why anyone should see him come and go and suspect, not if it’s only another brief visit, but he feels transparent. When he’d come to call before, he had had hope, but no expectation. Jack might have let him in or sent him away, or let him in but not… not smiled at him the way that he did, not invited more. Now he can be reasonably certain that if he did make advances at this point, Jack would… respond in kind. He hadn’t been angry about Llewellyn keeping the photograph. And they reach the building so soon to think of parting, how could he say no to keeping company just a little longer?

He follows him up the stairs, nerves jittery. If he were invited to duck in, did he dare? Yes. Yes. They couldn’t talk otherwise. He couldn’t ask him otherwise, if he would… if he was interested in a courtship, of whatever sort Llewellyn can give. He may never have answers he’s satisfied with, for how he can bear living this life, he can’t _wait_ until he has all the answers. 

“I could make dinner for two as easily as for one…” Jack suggests, and the temptation is certainly there, but so is the fear. “... Or not.”

“Another time. I’ll bring wine, and-- Another time. But… a moment?”

“A moment.” He smiles, and lets them in. “Will you take your hat off this time?”

“I don’t know. I-- I wasn’t… prepared, for dinner.” He apologizes, and does remove his hat, lets Jack take it gently from him and hang it by the door. “I would like to, when I am… When I can bring something. I would like…”

The words all catch in his throat, he is struck entirely dumb by the open and patient expression Jack regards him with, the dusting of pale gold freckles across cheeks and brow and the warmth in the cool color of his eyes. With hands just slightly clumsy with nerves, he carefully slides the rosebud in his buttonhole free of its pin, reaches to take Jack’s hand, to press the flower gently into it.

“I would like to come back, when I-- I would like to come back. I would like to see you. I would like my intentions to be plain-- I do not know what shape my life needs to take now, or how to manage, but I have never shared such an understanding with another soul, and when I think of what we might yet share, I am braver. Maybe not… not very much so. But I like you very much. I think of you, often. And your photograph is beneath my pillow, and I will get it to you, but I have enjoyed having it.”

“Oh.” Jack’s empty hand comes up to rest over his heart, he catches his lower lip between his teeth and the desire to kiss him is there, more than ever, is stronger still when Jack lifts the rosebud to his nose, when he lets he soft petals of it then brush his lips in passing. He reaches out and takes Llewellyn’s hand, brings that up as well, with a question in his eyes. 

Llewellyn nods. What else could he do? And he is _transfixed_ , by Jack’s gaze, the myriad of unnamed wants there as he brings that hand up to his lips, brushing one gentle kiss across the knuckles first. And then a second, lingering, his eyes fluttering closed. How strange that it should feel like this, when he’s rested the backs of his fingers against his own mouth a thousand times while deep in thought, and the physical sensation shouldn’t be so different. 

“Oh.” He echoes, and Jack meets his eyes again, thumb rubbing over one of the spots he’d just kissed.

“I would be very pleased to have you call on me, any night you’re free. If you can give me notice, I can do something nice for dinner.”

“I will. I might-- I might, by your shop early on, and then… show up, in the evening? With a bottle of a very versatile red?”

“Please do.” And he kisses Llewellyn’s hand a third time. “If I don’t get your hat now, I’m not so sure I’ll ever let you leave.”

“Ah.”

“Which is only half-kidding. I have a powerful urge to keep you, and you’ve said tonight is not your night to be kept.”

“No, I have work, in the morning.”

“I’ll work on my self-control.” He reaches past him, for the hat, bringing them closer even as he has to release his hand to get it. “Thank you. For walking me home, for this… for everything. I… your kindness and your friendship, in the wake of what happened that night, has been… it’s been so much. The promise of more than that is… I think of you, as well. And I imagine touching your cheek, sometimes. Even just that… but I’ve built a dozen daydreams on it since you took the chair next to mine. You made me feel less alone than I could have.”

“You can, if you like. Touch me.”

Jack sets his hat in place first, and then his fingertips skim gently over Llewellyn’s cheek, and then his palm fits to his jaw, and his touch is so _warm_.

“Hm…” He tilts his head, regarding Llewellyn, regarding his own hand there against his face as he strokes his thumb over a cheekbone. “You’ve never been so clean-shaven in my daydreams.”

“I probably won’t be, next time, if that helps.” He shrugs.

Jack smiles, and this one is _barely_ so contained, as he leans up to let his lips grace the other cheek. 

“Good.” He whispers, slowly withdrawing from Llewellyn’s personal space. “I should have the time for the, ah, book club, next time I see you. I’ll make sure you get that. And-- and I’ll be there, you won’t be alone.”

“Thank you. I-- Soon? I’ll bring you your photograph.”

“Let me send you home with another one, then. I have a few copies, and I don’t need pictures of myself-- I never look at them.”

Jack gives the rosebud one last deep sniff, before he sets it gently on his table and goes to dig through a photograph album. The one he pulls out is perhaps from the same holiday-- he is sitting on the beach, maybe by a lake, caught in a moment of contemplation. His bare arms are wrapped around his knees.

“An acceptable trade?”

Llewellyn nods, mouth dry. “I’ll get--”

“You’ll get it to me. I know.” He says, and touches his cheek once more. “Pleasant dreams, Detective.”

“And you.” He catches that retreating hand, pressing the quickest kiss to the heel of it. “Mister Walker. Have a very lovely night.”


	4. A Little Bit Tower of Pisa Whenever I See Ya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Llewellyn Watts is not a man accustomed to being taken care of. He's not entirely sure how to handle it, when someone proves willing and able.

He pops into the shop the next day, timing it so that he’s coming in just before he expects Jack will break for his lunch. And, luckily, he’s just in time to hold the door open for the last exiting customer of the hour.

“Do you have a safe?” He asks, without preamble. “Or a filing cabinet where you keep accounts? Or… a desk, with a drawer where you could… put something?”

“The photograph?”

“I didn’t think you would want to leave it lying out on the chopping block.”

“The office is this way-- if you could flip the sign for me?”

Llewellyn obliges, following him back into the office. Small, simple, mostly quite neat. The door clicks shut, and Jack moves to take his hand. 

“Thank you.”

“Well… I said I’d get it to you.” He pulls an envelope from where he’d tucked it into his waistcoat. “It’s a little rumpled.”

“From you sleeping on it?”

“From a little rough treatment beforehand. I tried to smooth it out.”

“A couple of nights under a heavy enough book should do it. If I have any the right shape… well. Under two heavy books, maybe, to try and get it all… Dracula and the complete works of Shakespeare ought to be able to handle it.”

“Dracula? Did you like it?”

“Book club.” He shrugs, smiling. “I did. Like I said, they sometimes do discuss the book. Everyone takes turns choosing, so you never know what it’s going to be. Depending on who’s up, it could be something thrilling, or soppy, or... ancient philosophers.”

“And all the gentlemen of the book club are…?”

“Of a persuasion? Yes. Mostly older, the type who doesn’t like to advertise. It’s quiet, but… you can breathe. Time will tell how Glen takes to it, he was one of Owen’s… but everyone from that circle is so scattered just now, and at least… you know? It’s something, not to be alone. Even if you’re just debating what you’ve read.”

“I enjoy a literary debate. Or a philosophical one.” He says. If anything, sitting in a room with a few older men talking about something they’ve all read is his entire comfort zone, when it comes to finding new homes among people, and new parts of himself. “And what sorts of books do you put forth?”

“Henry James, last time it was my turn.”

Llewellyn smiles, regarding him a moment. “I am… very fortunate to know you, I think. You prove more and more interesting. And I would like to hear your thoughts about… everything.”

“And I yours.” He lets go of Llewellyn’s hand, so that he can secret away the envelope in his desk. “Now. Have you eaten yet?”

“No time, had to catch you.” He pats one of his pockets. “Had to bring it with me.”

“Tell me peanut butter isn’t involved in whatever that is.” Jack slides an arm around his neck. “Llewellyn, _please_.”

“Nope, just pretzel.”

“You know you can’t live off of bread alone, right?”

“I believe I’ve heard that somewhere.” He lets a hand rest at Jack’s waist, dizzy with the very idea of it, the nearness, the freedom of the tiny office. 

“You really do need someone taking care of you.”

“I don’t know, I’ve been taking care of myself long enough…”

“Yes, _long enough_ , exactly.” Jack laughs, and tugs him back towards the door, not yet letting go of him. “Time for the job to go to someone who will feed you properly. If I ever find you eating bread and peanut butter, I’m failing at something.”

He can’t find it in him to quip back, to joke about his propensity for being fed or about anything else. Has he been taking care of himself… well, too long? Taking care of himself, taking care of others if they’d let him or if they’d needed him, making himself small enough to fit into a place anywhere as would have him… trying to make himself more agreeable to people and never knowing how, until he gave up on social convention, it was never going to get him anywhere, and he’d lost his parents and he’d lost his brothers and he’d lost his best friend and every other friendship he has is so tenuous now, even those who accept his little ways know a part of him, and the part they don’t is the problem… He knows exactly what happens to men like him. He wonders if Scott still has any friends, or if they’ve all heard, turned their backs. 

When’s the last time someone only wanted to take care of him?

Before they can leave the office, he pulls Jack close, just holding him. After a moment, a strong hand kneads at one shoulder, unerringly finding a knot there even through the impediment of his jacket. 

“Llew--?” Jack whispers. “All right?”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

“Your back is like a rock.” Jack groans. “This wouldn’t happen if you stood up straight.”

“Don’t like to. ‘M too tall.”

“You’re perfect.” He kisses Llewellyn’s cheek, soft. “Stand up, shoulders _down_ , and give me your opinion on sausage.”

“Heavily in favor.” He does his best to straighten up, but it feels unnatural, somehow vulnerable. “At least if it’s yours.”

Several somethings flicker across Jack’s face-- a trace of the light which frequently takes his eyes during those well-contained smiles, a flash of something almost touching on that curious expression he’d seen a couple of times and been challenged to figure out for himself, something confused, something wanting. 

“Then don’t run off before I can get you one. Duck?”

“I thought you wanted me to stand up straight.”

“Sausage.” And now it’s that smile alone, which he’s beginning to grow accustomed to, and long for. He has no idea if he earns them or if they come along unbidden, and does not care as long as they are granted to him either way. “Or lamb?”

“I leave myself in your hands.” He says, spreading his own, feeling something too much like happiness well up inside him at the slight increase in that smile. 

“Good. I’ll go into the other back and get something cooked up.”

He inspects the office in the meantime, in an idle sort of way. Just getting an idea of how tidy or untidy Jack is with things-- well-organized files, but scattered notes upon the desk. A literary magazine lying out, a small painting on one wall of a pastoral scene, a photograph of a woman-- his mother? 

He wanders out when it’s either that or start poking through drawers, meeting Jack in the front of the shop. Jack presents the plated sausage with a flourish, smiling at him and leaning on the counter. 

“Duck, this time. Tell me what you think of it.”

There is a fork, but he ignores it, inspiration striking. Instead, he digs the pretzel out, unanchoring it from itself and doing his level best to get it wrapped around the sausage while Jack looks on, bemused. 

“This is… unwieldy.” He admits. “But I think it will work.”

And despite the fact that the pretzel very much does not want to stay amenably wrapped around the sausage, work it does. He just has to hold it a bit carefully. He takes a bite, moaning around it. The flavor is perfect, the texture is perfect… the snap of the sausage and the chewiness of the pretzel and the way the juices soak into the breadiness as he eats. He should have been doing this… should have come up with this idea earlier, at least.

“That’s good.” He says at last, very carefully moving the pretzel-wrapped sausage from one hand to the other to be able to lick the grease from the wrapping process from his fingers. “Oh-- I wish I could stay longer, I need to… stationhouse, shorthanded. But this… very good. This is the duck?”

“It is.” Jack says, and despite his brief confusion over the enmeshing of sausage and pretzel, he is favoring Llewellyn with that look again, the somewhat rarer one, not too different from his usual smile but somehow _moreso_. 

“I like the duck.” He gives it a wave for emphasis, before taking another bite. 

“Hang on-- hang on, before you go, one more thing.” Jack grabs a scrap of brown paper and his pen, carefully writing out an address, date, and time. He tucks the note into Llewellyn’s breast pocket. “Book club. Thought while you were here… Although-- if you want to call on me before then, for anything.”

“I shall endeavor to. And… thank you. And-- it’s just nice to see you, even if I have to-- It’s just nice to see you, sometimes, for a moment.”

“It’s nice to see you, too. I’ll make a note to try and stock the duck more often. I can set you aside a couple of sausages whenever I do.”

“I-- yes, that’s-- you’re-- I have to say, you do know the way to a man’s heart.”

“Go on, get back to work before you get in trouble.” He shakes his head. “I’ll see you.”

“I’ll see you.” He nods, giving Jack one last wave before ducking back out of the shop.

It’s not quite as neat and easy as a hot dog, he will grant, the whole pretzel situation… but it’s much more enjoyable. He is resolved to tell George about it, though he imagines there may be some spirited debate over the subject. Well, a spirited debate will take George’s mind off of things-- there’s been some problem with schedulings of weekends and someone’s cold and numbers being rather thin, and suppose there’d been something big? As pleasant as lingering over lunch might have been, he’s currently the stationhouse’s only detective who isn’t off somewhere else on holiday.

George is at his desk and going rather listlessly through fingermarks, when he does get back, and so he drops into Higgins’ usual seat, receiving a somewhat tired smile.

“I have just had a life-changing experience.”

“Oh?” That breaks George’s concentration from his task entirely. “Well, go on, then, do tell.”

“You know… hot dogs?”

“I daresay.”

“I’ve improved upon the concept.” He nods.

“Well now I really don’t see as how that could be possible, Sir, but go on.”

“I have had a duck sausage-- _fantastic_ , by the way, I don’t think I’ve ever had duck sausage before. Although…” He scratches idly at an eyebrow. “Who knows what they put in some sausages? It’s not worth buying factory meat, is all I can say, everything goes into one enormous grinder…” He shudders theatrically. “You have to have a butcher you know you can trust, otherwise I stand by the lack of wisdom in eating something that could be anything.”

“I don’t know, I find a hot dog to be so trustworthy somehow. I mean it all looks the same inside, it’s very unlike other sausages. It’s uniform.”

“... Yes. Well. I took the duck sausage, and a pretzel I happened to have, and, disassembling and wrapping the pretzel around the sausage, came up with something spectacular.”

“Yes, but does it stay very well? Or, I mean, don’t you get sausage grease all over your fingers?”

“Mm. That is true, haven’t worked all the kinks out yet. Possibly the sausage should be baked into the pretzel.”

“I don’t see how that would work. But you’re the detective.”

He hums, mulling it over. It hardly matters, he couldn’t put the thing together to be baked on his own. 

“Here, pass me some of those, what are we looking for?” He offers, to George’s clear gratitude. The case, as he’s caught up on it, is minor enough, more tedium than anything. Normally he’d be dying to be doing… well, anything active. It makes it so much easier to _think_ when he’s in motion. But the fingermarks aren’t so bad. Sitting at a desk is increasingly agonizing, but each individual card is pretty quick to go over. Things jump out as wrong and he can discard them.

“Oh-- I’ve been meaning to ask you. Did you ever hear from your friend?” George asks, going over his own file box with more close scrutiny. 

“Oh-- yes.” Llewellyn tries to hold himself naturally, only to be faced with the very simple fact that he doesn’t know what ‘naturally’ is. How do people talk about their normal ordinary friends, their same-sex friends whom they are not courting, their everyday sort of friends who don’t say things about wanting to take care of them? He never _had_ to talk about a friend to someone before-- first, because he had none, and then because… well, there was no need to explain Jackson to the other constables, they were all friends when he arrived. Nor any need to explain them to each other, as he eased into other friendships at stationhouse four. “Everything turned out much better than expected for him. Troubles vanished, lost things restored, all good.”

“Well that’s good to hear. You having been so concerned and all. You know, for all that I know you like to divorce all emotion from crime-solving, you are the sort of man who is… I think, strong in his bonds, if you will.”

“You think so?” His brow knits.

“Yes. I’ve noticed it.”

“Mm. I’ve always heard… not that.”

“Well, perhaps none of us would have been very friendly if we had been saddled with stationhouse one. If I’m honest.” George says conspiratorially. “So you can’t go by what they’ve said. But ever since you’ve been here, I think you’ve got on. And, I mean, I know we all… I don’t know. We all feel sort of _familial_ here. Don’t you think so?”

He nods. “Stationhouse four has… always felt like a family. For a long time I wasn’t sure if I was on the inside or the outside. Sometimes, I’m-- It’s not that I don’t want to be liked. I’m just… never sure. Or… I wasn’t ever sure. Until this past spring, when I finally thought I was certain, and-- Even then, every time I bungle something I wonder if it’s temporary. Is that… normal?”

“Well… I don’t know if it’s normal. But I do think you wouldn’t fret over it if you didn’t genuinely care about the people around you, and put some weight in their esteem for you. But you haven’t bungled anything lately.”

“The last big case… I _didn’t_ , just--”

“Oh, the stamps? Yes, we came through on that one, didn’t we?”

“We did. I just… I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“You really did most of the work towards putting that one to bed.”

He can’t explain, not about the call he had made with Jack, not about his feelings over Scott, not about how much it had _bothered_ him to have to stand there and be maligned, even if no one meant it about him. To have been treated with such trust and such care on previous cases, and then to have the rug yanked out from under him with the realization that if they knew, they would not protect him, they would not want him. He’d be just… another kind. Contemptible. Men he respected and cared for would wash their hands of him and what’s worse, he doesn’t know what he would even feel. The conflict is still in him. He’s seen their better natures often enough that the esteem did not die. It is only touched by disappointment, and trepidation. 

He can’t explain how it left him feeling out of sorts in his home, because to do so he would have to say why he had felt he couldn’t belong. Could he have told Jackson? He wonders. Maybe. Maybe eventually, maybe he might have trusted him with it. He’d trusted him with so much else. What he wouldn’t give to talk to him about this now, if only to couch it in terms of it being a shame about Scott, to feel out the reaction. He finds it hard to imagine him anything but fair. He fusses with the lamp on the desk, but it doesn’t help him see the fingermarks more clearly, it’s the wetness in his eyes that’s the problem.

He wonders, even more than that… he wonders if Clarissa, in her desire for isolation from the world of men, would understand this side of him more or less than anyone else. But that’s… that’s a train of thought he does not wish to go down. It’s not as if he can ever know. It only leads him circling back to the knowledge that she had not considered he could worry or mourn, moreover that she considered his feelings immaterial. That all the desperate love he’d held for the vague, soft shape of her in his memory, for all those years, was in vain. If there was a time when someone truly wanted him, it is before his memories truly gel. 

“Well, I, I just can’t look at these anymore.” George sighs, tossing down the card in his hand and standing up. “I’m going to go and fix a quick cuppa, could you use one?”

“Mm?”

“You look a bit tired, Detective. Why don’t you close your eyes a minute, I’ll put the kettle on, and we’ll get back to all this… I don’t know, later.”

“Ah. Yes. Thank you, George, that would… yes.”

“It comes on sudden, doesn’t it? One minute you’re sitting down, looking at your first set of fingermarks, and before you know it, you’re rubbing your eyes and wishing someone needed you for absolutely anything else.”

“Quite. But… we’ll persevere in good time.”

“You know, you really don’t have to-- oh, never thought I’d say that… But if you’ve got a headache, I mean.”

“I don’t mind. I think I’d better… lay low a bit and just make myself useful, until a case comes along for me.”

“Well… I’m glad to have you. I’ll be back with that tea.”

He nods, slumping down in the chair. The bullpen is empty… aside from their man on the front desk, the others are all on patrol, or off for the day, Brackenreid is in his office, things are quiet… and as much as he knows he ought to be here just in case, because someone’s got to be if something comes in, he wishes he’d stayed, with Jack. They could have enjoyed a lunch break together, they could have had a little privacy… and then maybe he wouldn’t be grappling with what it is that makes him so fundamentally unlovable that she couldn’t be around him, that she couldn’t even give him a goodbye. He could accept that she was in no position to be tasked with his care, but she could have been around. He could have grown up knowing something about who he was, if there wasn’t something detestable in him even then. 

Was it this? 

No, it couldn’t have been, he… he wasn’t _this_ yet, was he? He doesn’t think he can have been. 

Was it just what everyone else saw in him? The same undefined things that made his life at stationhouse one so lonely. Things he knows he can’t change, any more than he could change where his attraction lies. He’s tried, it’s useless, and yet… 

“Do you think it’s a choice?” He asks George, on his return.

“Beg pardon, Sir?”

“That case… men like Paxton-- men like Detective Scott. I… I hear people say… it’s as much as they deserve for choosing that. But I couldn’t…” His brow furrows. “But Detective Scott was, as far as I can know, a good detective and a good man, why would he choose something that would cost him his career? Why would anyone?”

“I don’t know, Sir. People choose to do all sorts of things which aren’t, strictly speaking, legal, of course, and it’s not like we’re talking about _murder_ \-- as it happens.”

“Yes, but-- but if it was, then couldn’t anyone choose to…” He gestures uselessly. “But I couldn’t! I wager you couldn’t change yourself like that.”

“Oh, no… I certainly did, I chose to like girls at… well, what age doesn’t matter. It seemed more sensible to me, you know. I mean, it’s all very well to have a look around at everything, when you’re young, but then you’ve got to think about your future. Suppose you went and set your cap on a fellow, see, and he went off and got married to a girl? Where would that leave you, now, do you suppose? You’d be heartbroken! And you couldn’t very well say anything about it. So. The only reasonable course of action is to decide it’s girls for you and stick to it.”

Llewellyn’s brow furrows. “But… you _do_ like girls. Women.”

“Oh, yes. Occasionally to my detriment, I don’t mind saying. What’s the bard say? Not wisely but too well. Yes, that’s me and girls, I suppose. I mean, but that’s behind me, I’ve found the right one, I think. And she thinks, which is an important part of it.”

“But you could have chosen not to?”

“I don’t think so, no. I mean, why would I? And even if I had, I expect I’d soon find my head turned-- probably the minute I said I was done with ‘em. Just the way, isn’t it? Harder you say something’s not to be, the more the universe throws it at you. Just look at-- well, I don’t know, just look around you, I guess. Now I think that’s the right of it, I couldn’t have chosen not to like women if I’d a mind to.”

“That’s my point, then, we don’t get to decide. Scott didn’t get to decide.”

“Well, no, but I mean I could have decided to like both, couldn’t I have? Theoretically.”

“I… don’t think so, George. That’s not how it works.”

“Well, now we’re at an impasse, because I think I can and you think I can’t.” George folds his arms. “Look, for the sake of being scientific, I’m going to imagine a man with every admirable trait, and I’m going to see if I can choose to be at all interested in him. Should we have a stopwatch for this?”

“What would we do with the stopwatch?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Sir, it just feels more scientific.”

Llewellyn pulls his watch out, though he doesn’t bother to hide his confusion. “I’ll… time you then.”

“All right.” George closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. He’ll give him this, he’s open-minded. Odd, but… but he’s at least willing to treat the idea as a science experiment rather than grounds for disgusted ranting. “I’m starting _now_. I’m not feeling anything in particular…”

“Mm.”

“Perhaps the man I’ve imagined is too idealized. Perhaps that’s the problem, he’s unattainable. Or he’s the sort of man I’d want to _be_ , but I couldn’t get lost in his eyes, if you know what I mean.”

“Perhaps so.”

“Perhaps I’m starting from the wrong end of the thing. I’ve imagined an ideal, yes, but that’s got nothing to do with _me_. I need to think about the sort of person I’d want to spend my time on. Or, someone who could inspire _feeling_ in me.” He says, and he screws his face up in concentration a moment, before it relaxes. There’s a serene smile, and then a look of dismay, before he opens his eyes, waving an arm. “All right, all right, you can call the experiment off, that definitely didn’t go how I thought it would.”

“I’ve lost track of timing you, so it’s just as well.” He informs him. 

“Oh, oh, it’s _certainly_ just as well. All right, for the sake of argument let’s say it’s not a matter of choice, but… if it was, would that make a difference, really?” George frowns, reaching over to straighten the lamp on Henry’s desk back out as it had been. “I’m just not sure why that’s part of the criteria. I mean, I sometimes get letters from this girl I used to step out with-- well, I don’t suppose that’s important. I mean, she’s a very nice girl.”

He feels as if he’s missed a step, or several, but all he can really do is go over the marks in front of him and let George straighten the desk from whatever disarray he’s put it in as he goes. When he thinks he’s put in a good enough show of working diligently at a boring task, penance for his previous misdeed, he excuses himself. Murdoch’s office is standing empty for the day, there’s no reason he couldn’t use it as a spot to work for a little while. Just to have walls between himself and the world when he can’t stop his thoughts from spiraling back around the drain.

It is a pattern in his life, that everyone he loves he loses, and everyone who was meant to love him… either they don’t, or they die. Maybe it would be for the best, for Jack to leave, except… except hasn’t he already told him everything wrong with him. And Jack had only said he needed taking care of.

He _doesn’t_ need taking care of, he’s gone most of his life without it, or without much. He’s always been all right taking care of himself. He’s had to be. But the idea is tempting… to have someone he could go to? To have someone who would take him. At his lowest points? It hardly seems realistic. Not when his own sister had been so eager to be away from him. Not not-responsible, _away_.

The rain starts while he’s curled up on the floor next to Murdoch’s desk, and he tries to let the sound of it calm him, but it’s not easy. He’s gone into the hole now, memories of funeral after funeral and all his fruitless searching, of crime scene photographs, of hopes dashed time and time again, of parting words hurled at him, of every human connection he failed to make and keep.

He wakes up under the desk, from what had been a very unsatisfying nap-- one he hadn’t realized he was falling into. It’s late, and it’s wet, and it’s dark. When he leaves the stationhouse, his feet take him to Jack’s.

“Llewellyn?” Jack’s brow furrows, he throws his door open wider and pulls him in. “You’re _shivering_ , where’s your coat?”

“Mm?”

“Where’s your coat? It’s raining. What’s happened-- oh… oh, no, you haven’t been-- no one’s--no one suspects--?”

“Mm.” He allows Jack to take his sopping wet jacket, watches listlessly as he moves to hang it in front of the fire in his stove, waistcoat soon to follow.

“You’re soaked to the _bone_.” He tuts. “What’s happened to you? Just this afternoon, you were well enough, has something happened? Work?”

“You’re here.” He blinks.

“Where else would I be?” Jack steers him to sit down by the fire as well. “Where’s your hat?”

“Work. I think. With my coat. I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.”

“Don’t be silly.” And his hand strokes through Llewellyn’s hair, gentle. “I’m getting you a towel. Um… oh…”

“I’m all right. I’ll be fine. I-- I should go…”

And yet… he’d have to have some kind of energy, to make himself leave. Instead, he lets Jack try to dry his hair, and comb the damp tangles out, and fuss. 

“Can I help you with your shirt? This isn’t exactly how I wanted to undress you, but you’re going to catch your death. I, um… I’ll get you something you can wear.”

Llewellyn nods, a little absently. Jack takes his tie first, hangs it up as well, before deftly undoing his buttons. He towels him off, before taking his undershirt as well and helping him to shrug into a sweater. Evidently, he deems his trousers not too dire a situation, provided he stays there by the fire to dry off and warm up, and then a blanket is draped around him and a cup of tea pushed into his trembling hands.

“I’ve lost everyone… who’s ever cared for me, or ever should have.” He says, looking up. “The better part of two families, the one I was born to and the one that took me in when my parents died. I have lost everyone. And you… you talk about taking care of me, like… like it’s simple.”

“Oh.” He cups Llewellyn’s cheek. His hand feels _hot_. “Oh… Llew. Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s not simple, out in the real world. I’m sorry it’s never been… But let me try?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” He pushes the hair back from his forehead, and leans over him, brushing a kiss there. “I’m not. Let me heat you up some supper.”

He nods, feeling a little lost still, out of sorts. He can hardly remember any of the walk. He can hardly account for so much of his afternoon. He’d been discounting fingermarks and he’d thought about Jackson, Clarissa, Hubert… and himself, alone at the end of the day, every time, and… and now he’s here, sipping tea, listening to Jack bustle about his room, watching him stand over the stove with a pan. And he doesn’t seem put out, he just seems… sad, and sweet, and kind. 

Jack has rough edges, sometimes. He’s seen him under duress before. But there’s no signs of that now, as he drags the table closer so that he can eat, while Jack fusses still. The meal he’d managed to throw together on such short notice brings Llewellyn out of that near-fugue, reminding him of an ignored appetite, and he catches himself suddenly fully a part of his own body again, hunched over the plate and all but shoveling hash and eggs into his mouth. He meets Jack’s eyes and has to look away, heat flooding his face.

“Mm-- oh… sorry.” He sits up properly. “I… must not have… eaten, when I normally would have.”

“That’s all right.” Jack reaches over to push his hair back again. “I like a man with an appetite.”

“Oh, uh… yes, well.” He coughs. “In your profession, I suppose that stands to reason.”

“Stay, tonight. Nothing-- nothing’s going to happen. You’re here because you needed a friend, not a sweetheart. And I can be both.”

“If anyone found--”

“Found what? Nothing’s happened, nothing’s going to. I lent you some clothes and gave you a place to sleep so you wouldn’t be ill, after you got caught in a storm. _If_ my landlord sees you leaving, just… flash that badge and tell him you stopped by this morning to ask a follow-up question about the case. Or tell him the truth-- it’s freezing out there, it’s pouring rain, you needed to stay with a friend in the neighborhood because you didn’t think you could make it home. And absolutely nothing untoward happened.”

“You kissed my forehead.”

“Well he doesn’t need to know that. And anyway… I don’t think there’s anything untoward about what I can do to your _forehead_. All right?”

“All right.” He nods. He doesn’t like the idea of putting Jack at risk, and for what? Because he’d had some sort of odd episode? But he trusts him, absolutely.


	5. Then When You See Your Error

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watts deals with the aftermath of letting himself be cared for, with his first real social experience as a gay man, and with seeking some advice the one way he thinks he can.

He wakes up disoriented, in borrowed pajamas and a borrowed bed. It’s barely dawn, the light that comes through the window just enough to limn Jack in silver. More moon than sun yet… Jack, sleeping in his chair, because he had promised… he had promised to be there for him as a friend. Because he would not take advantage of the state Llewellyn had been in when he’d stumbled to his door-- not just sex, he thinks, but his _boundaries_. He’d helped him out of his shirt with an almost professional dispassion, for all the care he had given. And then he’d handed him a set of pajamas and turned his back, busied himself with the washing up to allow Llewellyn some privacy.

He swings out of bed and feels his clothes, which he deems dry enough. He doesn’t remember having his socks changed, but one of them must have done, at some point… the pair he’s wearing now are thick and hand-knit and he _thinks_ blue, even in the dark. Good winter socks. He looks down at his own wiggling toes a moment and thinks he could be forgiven for… forgetting, to change those back. Return them laundered at a later date.

Once otherwise dressed, he moves to wake Jack, crouching down beside his chair and giving his shoulder a touch.

“Hey… I’ve got to go.” His hand drifts from shoulder to cheek, when Jack’s eyes focus on him. “Before the morning gets any later. But you can get a little time in your own bed, at least.”

“So soon?” Jack stretches, something popping as he does. “I’d have made breakfast…”

“Mm, tempting. But… I shouldn’t have come here last night. Asked you to take care of me, risked getting you in trouble.”

“You didn’t ask. In fact, you kept rather stubbornly trying to tell me you didn’t need to be taken care of. Lucky for you, I can be stubborn, too.”

“Still. I shouldn’t have… put that on you.”

“All right. At least leave by the door and not the fire escape.”

“Good point. The clattering could wake someone. At this hour the corridors should be empty.”

“That’s not-- Just…” Jack sighs. “I don’t want you leaving by my fire escape, like some kind of... thief in the night. I know… I know all the dangers and I know all the things we don’t get to have, but _please_. You came here last night because you needed someone, you trusted me… and I didn’t bring you in to have you leave by the _fire escape_ like this was something tawdry and common. That’s not how it happened.”

He wishes he could understand the additional volumes in Jack’s eyes. The weight with which he regards him now. The things he doesn’t say-- though the things he does say… it’s still quite a lot. Just, not as much as the look that he gives him, which Llewellyn cannot meet for long. He glances around the room. Sheets not subject to any sexual activity, chair clearly slept on, with the rumpled blanket and the fallen pillow… furniture slightly rearranged, socks still hanging by the fire. If he were confronted, the truth would hold. And he knows he’s being illogical-- other people don’t _know_ , and while Jack might be told off for letting a friend sleep the night, no one would look for holes in their story, it’s a factual story with no holes, and people don’t walk around constantly expecting their neighbors of deviant sexual behavior. He’s just touchy, jumpy, unused to living under a realistic expectation of scrutiny.

“I’ll see you at the book club.” He says, when he can think of nothing any better to say than that.

“Yes.” Jack sighs. Upset, but he doesn’t know how to fix it, it seems beyond either of them to fix.

“Is there a-- I mean… how should I dress?”

Somehow, that does it. Jack is smiling at him, and reaching out to fix his tie. 

“It’s a book club, not a high society soiree. You can just come from work. But… if you’re asking _me_ , I like you in the green. Suits you.”

Llewellyn smiles back, finds himself standing a little taller, if not entirely straight. “Green it is.”

“I’ll see you then.” And he touches Llewellyn’s cheek, at the door, smiles even more warmly when his hand is kissed. And then, before Llewellyn can slip out, Jack grabs his arm. “Be careful.”

“I won’t be seen. And if I was, I wouldn’t-- I won’t let anything happen, to you.”

“No-- not-- I mean… at work? Be careful?”

He realizes then, a little slower than he thinks he should have. Jack undressed him last night. Jack saw the scar… the one right under where his hand is wrapped around his upper arm.

Llewellyn nods, and pats his hand. “I will be. This… this isn’t a usual thing, it’s all right. I’ll be careful. I’ll be safe.”

Jack nods, some of the tension leaving him, and he opens the door and checks the hallway, making sure the coast is clear before he waves Llewellyn out.

Despite the fear that won’t quite leave him as he sneaks out, the thought of being caught, of being traced back to Jack, of people somehow looking at them and _knowing_. Of Jack losing everything this time… Jack escaping being tarred by his association in the Paxton case only for Llewellyn to damn him, just because he’d been emotional, careless, stupid, needy. 

No wonder no one else could stand him. He’s a hypocrite, and a fool, and a _child_ , and he doesn’t… he doesn’t deserve the kind of care Jack has lavished on him. Showing up at all hours, half-aware of his surroundings, no better than if he had been drunk, no more careful. 

But Jack had fed him as if he were glad to do it, and given up his bed-- showing up and making him give up his bed, if he didn’t have the man’s socks, he wouldn’t be surprised to hear that actually, there was no need for them to ever see each other again, as this clearly wasn’t going to work. 

_No_. Jack hadn’t said anything like that, because Jack doesn’t see him like that. He might not understand _how_ Jack doesn’t see him like that, but the facts, the objective facts. Jack would have made him breakfast. Jack didn’t want him climbing out the window like some cheap tryst. Jack likes him in green-- maybe, specifically, does he like him in the suit he wore on the day that they met? Or is it just the color? That fact is not yet settled, but that Jack has one suit in particular which he likes seeing him in more than others. Jack touches him, gentle and warm, Jack smiles at him and it is not a put-on smile, not a behind-the-counter smile, because it’s in his eyes more than his lips. Even when his mouth stays tight, the muscles of his cheeks _lift_ , up around his eyes. Jack let him walk off wearing his socks. Well, possibly he hadn’t noticed that, but still. 

His emotions are in a riot, just the same, and nothing can calm him. For an entire day, no amount of work and nothing he eats and nothing any well-meaning person says to him can pierce the veil he seems surrounded by, and then he’s handed a case.

It’s not a particularly big one, or a difficult one, but it gets him moving, and George is a good sounding board, even if he’s somewhat preoccupied with wondering about the case they’re not on. Understandable, he supposes-- the series of murders is _undoubtedly_ a bigger case, which it seems every other constable is working to help bring to an end. They’ve got a much lower-stakes kidnapping to get to the bottom of, but it’s enough to occupy his mind, it’s enough to keep him from sitting and stewing. And when the case is wrapped and it’s the night of the book club, he doesn’t feel quite so petrified.

He shows up at the house, laundered socks rolled up in one pocket of his overcoat and copy of Plato’s Symposium in hand. He is not prepared for Aldous Germaine to be the one opening the door-- he’d been part of Parker’s stamp club, not his other… circle. Then again, maybe it’s only because he’s also the quiet sort. 

Aldous Germaine had also not been prepared for him, it seems. He gapes a moment, and glances back over his shoulder into the house, just briefly, before pasting on a terrified smile.

“Detective Watts! What a-- what a surprise to see you. Is this-- That is-- Was there some matter about the, the Paxton case? Am I needed to appear before the court, is that-- is that it?”

Llewellyn holds up the book. “No, I’m… I’m not here in an official capacity. I had… I had thought there was a book club. Plato’s Symposium? I was told it wouldn’t be a problem, if my copy wasn’t the english translation…”

“Watts.” Scott appears behind Germaine’s shoulder, expression unreadable, but not unfriendly. There’s a dawning understanding, though there’s something else he can’t read on him. “I… shouldn’t be surprised. No, it’s not a problem. Please, come in, come in.”

Germaine steps out of the way, relieved, and Llewellyn strides forward, tucking his book under his arm and offering his hand, clasping Scott’s. 

“Detective Scott. I was hoping to-- I wanted to get the chance to speak with you.”

“Not ‘detective’ any longer.”

“Well. I want you to know, I tried-- You shouldn’t have had to lose your job. And I told my inspector--”

“I appreciate that.” He nods, giving Llewellyn’s hand a final pat before they release each other. “But you could only stick your neck out so far, and I never expected… I’d rather have turned my badge in at your stationhouse than mine. One is… an unfriendly place. The past two years, I’ve had one of our detectives looking to get rid of me, so at least I can be satisfied he didn’t get to pull the trigger.”

“Yes, I… I think you were my replacement there, they… well, they had other reasons for not wanting me around much.” His brow furrows. “So I can commiserate.”

“I’m landing on my feet, anyway. A friend’s gotten me an interview for a job doing private security. It won’t be the same, but it’s what I know how to do. Look… I’m sorry I didn’t trust you--”

“You had no reason to. Not after the way we handled things…”

“Well. I wondered.” He shrugs. “Either you were one of us, or you were willing to play on certain sympathies. But… no matter how good your intentions, I didn’t think you’d have enough luck protecting anyone else I could have put you in touch with. And I don’t suppose I have to ask who invited you...”

As if on cue, Jack appears from within the house, framed in a doorway, and his expression is cautious even here, but he still lights up, as Llewellyn thinks he must-- at least to this group of observers.

“I thought I heard your voice.” He says, and the warmth in his voice is enough to thaw the current rime of worry that had frosted itself over Llewellyn’s heart, over whether or not he’d spoiled things between them.

“I hope I’m not late. Ah-- I have something of yours…”

“Oh, I noticed.” His smile widens. “I’ll introduce you, everyone’s just sitting down now in the dining room. Hope you’ve brought your appetite.”

“I’ve never left home without it.” He pats his stomach, ambling after the others and into the dining room. 

There, he’s introduced to Reed and Stephen and Antony and Abram, the quartet of older men who form the core of the book club-- Stephen appears to be the head, a broad, grey-headed professorial type who holds court from the head of the table. Who speaks about philosophy as if he has some degree in it. Reed has a neat goatee, iron grey with two streaks of white, and he seems to go between a dry, acerbic wit and a sort of motherly kindness at the drop of a hat. He can’t quite tell if the two are old friends or lovers, just that they have a quick and easy back-and-forth. Antony and Abram are most certainly involved, they behave as any married couple at a dinner party might. 

The food is good, the discussion is exciting, but more than that… more than that, watching two men of fifty odd years favor each other with warm smiles, and reach over to push a bit of this onto the other’s plate or refill the other’s glass… to see hands and cheeks patted with tender affection. Two men who for all the world he’d believe have been married some thirty years, were that a possibility.

He glances across the table, at Jack. Whatever they can’t have, this is a view of what they _can_ , what they _could_. Jack just sees him, and smiles, and nods. 

“Where on _earth_ did you find this delightful young gentleman, Jack?” Reed asks, after Llewellyn has been pressed upon to read a passage in the original greek.

“He arrested me.” Jack says, and everyone-- bar Scott and Llewellyn himself-- laughs at that. 

And then they notice _Scott_ isn’t laughing, and the laughter dies away.

“Well-- technically, I was… present, when you were… taken into custody.” He shifts in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. 

“Slapped in handcuffs on a first date. Ah, to be young!” Reed sighs, rolling his eyes heavenward.

“Oh, no, there were no handcuffs. It was just questions--”

“About poor Owen.” Germaine adds.

“Detective Watts sprung him, actually.” Scott elbows him lightly, with a little smile. 

“Oh, a jailbreak. Well this has rapidly become my kind of story.” Antony leans over the table. “How did you get away with it?”

“Temporarily.” Jack blushes, looking down at his plate. “I was temporarily released to my own recognizance. I came back.”

“I am interested in how you managed to keep his name out of things.”

“I’m not sure that has much to do with me.”

The subject drops after that, the book is returned to, wine glasses are refilled and a dessert is brought out and everyone in this room has taken it for granted-- though neither of them has said so much-- that he and Jack are… involved. They all take it for granted and it just… is. There is the sort of gentle ribbing that he thinks ones older relations would normally bestow, on the occasion of bringing home a new beau, and that’s all. Not that he has any real experience with the gentle ribbing of older relations, but it’s as he imagines that might be.

“Your detective has a healthy appetite.” Reed remarks, during dessert, with a quirked eyebrow and a tone that seems to imply something beyond the fact that Llewellyn has accepted a second helping while the others were still enjoying their first. 

“It’s one of his better qualities.” Jack says, eyes barely flickering away from Llewellyn a moment. There is something in the warmth of his gaze and his tone which sets Llewellyn’s stomach flipping over, which makes him warm, which sends an undefined thrill through him. 

Antony starts to say something, and someone kicks him under the table before he can get very much out, and it’s not as if Llewellyn Watts has ever been to a social function where half the conversation didn’t fly straight over his head anyway, but he feels as if he’s missing something, maybe multiple somethings. Certainly, his taking a second helping had pleased the evening’s baker. No one had treated it as a faux pas-- he’d been offered, a moment after his plate was clean. There is some sort of joke, and he is the subject or the object of the joke, but not the butt of it.

“We ought to move to the sitting room.” Stephen says at last. “Port, cigars, further conversation awaits.”

“Sorry, gentlemen.” Jack rises, turning a look towards Llewellyn. “I’m afraid once midnight rolls around, my carriage turns back into a pumpkin.”

“Oh, boo.”

“Some of us have work in the morning.”

“I’ll-- I mean, why don’t I? Escort you.” He scrambles to get around the table to him, before he can make for the door. “Walk you home?”

“I was thinking of trying to get a cab, supposed to be more rain overnight. We could share one.”

The group as a whole moves to the front hall to say goodbyes, and to argue about some point from the previous month’s meeting which had not been resolved to Reed’s satisfaction, as Llewellyn helps Jack with his coat, and allows the same. 

“Did you enjoy it?” He asks, taking Llewellyn’s arm-- not for long, never for long, but as they descend from the porch. They are walking at a respectable distance by the time they reach the street. 

“Yes. Very much.”

“I’m glad. We’ve never had such representation amongst the group’s younger members… just think, if you and Glen both keep attending, it puts us even.”

“Mm. No longer shall you bow to the tyranny of your elder academics.” He laughs.

“I’m glad you came. I-- I want you to know people. Safer, quieter people than some of the ones I’ve rubbed elbows with. I’m not sure if the change of pace will suit Glen… But-- but people. And… I want you to know my friends. And for them to know you. And… for there to be _someone_ , who looks at you, and calls you mine.”

He doesn’t know what to say. He can never… he doesn’t get to introduce Jack to his friends, such as he has. His friends know Jack as a criminal.

The bitter unfairness of it, Jack! A criminal! Well, maybe in the eyes of one law, but… but he’s a man who cares about people, and takes care of people, who thinks about whether his mother will worry and knows that a phone call wouldn’t be enough to settle a break in habit, who… who looks at _Llewellyn_ and sees something no one else has ever seen. Who doesn’t run from it, as everyone else has run. Or…

Everyone who hasn’t run from him…

No. He will not let that happen this time. He will not let that happen to _Jack_.

Jack doesn’t balk at his silence. He thinks that Jack must understand-- when the subject is introducing your sweetheart to your friends, it’s obvious that one of them can and one of them can’t.

They do find a cab. At Jack’s, Llewellyn asks the driver to wait for him.

“I have to get something from my friend, upstairs.” He excuses himself. “But I’ll take you eight more blocks if you can hold for me.”

“Eight blocks?” Jack hisses. 

“What?” He follows him inside, they fall into step moving towards the stairs.

“Every time you leave me, you walk eight blocks?”

“I like walking.”

“Not at _night_ , in the cold.”

“Not as such.” He admits. “I have a cab tonight. And a coat. And a hat.”

“What am I going to do with you?” Jack sighs, and straightens his tie. “And where are my socks, Detective?”

“Ah.” He pulls them from his coat pocket, grinning as Jack snatches them back. “Laundered and returned. And I believe you have my socks?”

“I believe I do.” Jack lets them into his room, though he makes no effort to produce them. Instead, with the door closed behind them, he winds his arms around Llewellyn’s shoulders, leaning into him. “You can come back again and get them another night.”

“I came up now to get them.”

“I need something to keep you coming back.”

“I hate to break it to you, but my socks are a poor bargaining chip. But…”

He ducks out of Jack’s embrace, walking to his bookshelf, and sliding his own copy of Plato’s Symposium into a space where it will fit. 

“I’ll be back for that. Socks?”

Jack sighs. “You drive a hard bargain.”

He goes through his drawer, hunting around and then coming up with a pair of socks which, if they are _not_ Llewellyn’s, are a very good match. 

“Thank you.” He plucks them from Jack’s hand, shoving them down into his pocket. “Well. I should… Before it gets too late.”

Jack hums, disappointed. Not bitterly so, but it’s enough to pick up on, even if he doesn’t let it sour his mood or their parting too greatly. “Sure. The cab’s waiting. And-- even if we wanted, I have an early delivery tomorrow. It’s best if we cut it short this time.”

“You’ll hold onto that book for me, now?”

That, at least, brings his smile back. “I will. If you won’t forget to come back for it.”

“I just don’t want to get you into trouble. We were lucky, before.”

“We didn’t do anything before. And-- and we don’t have to! I don’t ask you in because I’m only interested in one thing. You could stay any time you wanted, without… I mean, tonight’s not ideal, I wouldn’t have time in the morning for breakfast, but you _could_ , and… and your virtue’s safe with me, until you’re ready.”

“I know. And… and I want you to… to be interested. Jack, when we met, you were-- you could have lost everything, and I didn’t even know you then, but I-- But if I was the reason you lost everything now, I… I’ve just. I’ve lost enough. And the more I see you, the more I--”

He can’t say it. He doesn’t need to. Jack kisses his cheek, soft, and then his lips.

“I’m a big boy. I know what the risks are. I’m careful.” He squeezes the back of Llewellyn’s neck. “I’ll take care of your book. Just… try not to get too spooked. And you know where to find me, if… I don’t know. If you get hungry, or you need a place to come out of the cold.”

“Oh, I can usually be counted on to be _hungry_.” He braves leaning in, taking another kiss. He’s never initiated a kiss before, but he doesn’t think he can be doing it _wrong_ , even with his limited experience of kissing. It’s not… _quite_ the kiss he had wanted it to be. He’s not quite that brave. “I get to missing your company, you know.”

“Llew…” Jack’s arms are around him again, his breathless laugh soft. “Before I really can’t stand to let you go. Before that carriage turns into a pumpkin.”

“Oh, no, it’s _your_ carriage that was going to do that. I’m the one holding onto your shoe.”

He laughs again, leans back in, lips brushing Llewellyn’s jaw. “I guess you are. And I guess you found me. Go on… before he leaves and you have to walk eight blocks in this weather. But-- well. Dream about me.”

“I hope to.”

They manage to tear themselves apart, he manages to get out the door. The cab is still waiting, he pays his fare gladly and falls into his own bed at the end of the night thinking about those kisses. He doesn’t remember his dreams, on waking, but he feels good enough to imagine he must have dreamed about him, too.

He finishes his breakfast on the walk in to the station, is whistling when he comes through the door, and he’s drawn the attention of the whole of the bullpen by the time he realizes he’s doing it. Not only the constables, but Brackenreid and Murdoch, who are currently going over case details with a few of them. Or, who had been, before Llewellyn came in whistling something, spring in his step. Walking lovesick cliche… with a few differences.

“Well! Good to see you in better spirits, Sir.” George greets. 

“Who is she?” Higgins asks.

“Oh-- no. No, nothing like--” He starts, but as he’s nudged and chuckled at, the idea sinks in. What if there was a ‘she’? What if he could just… talk, a little, about someone he cared for? He’d need a name he would remember, to pull it off. But if he could… He’d have to work around the fact that no one could ever meet her, but that wouldn’t be difficult. Plenty of reasons for a secret relationship, after all... and then his reputation would be a bit more secure, but he’d be able to talk, he’d be able to say… but only if he plays it exactly right. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

There’s a bit of hooting at that, someone slaps him on the back. 

“Oh, so you’ve kissed her, then?” 

“What’s the girl’s name?”

“She pretty?”

He does his best to keep track of the questions-- those, and a few he misses in the commotion.

“I really couldn’t talk about last night.” He says, which sets off a fresh ado, more back-slapping, a cry of ‘last night!’. “Now, it wasn’t like that. And I’m sure Inspector Brackenreid would like to remind us all that we have work to be doing.”

“Not that much work.” He laughs. “Good on you, then. Nice girl?”

“Very nice. Any new cases come in?”

“Only the usual complaints. Take your pick between domestic disturbances and petty vandalisms, there’s enough to check up on but we aren’t what you’d call busy.”

It’s enough to keep busy with for the morning. Nothing of real import… but, a vandalism complaint at a shop near Jack’s, which does allow him to slip in on his lunch break. 

“So soon.” Jack smiles, slow and warm. “Flip the sign. It… _might_ be, that I’ve got lunch for two on hand.”

He throws the lock and draws the shades as well, before moving to meet him, relaxing into his arms. 

“Work brought me out your way, and now there’s absolutely no crimes that require my attention.”

“Good.” Jack kisses him, just at the corner of his mouth, teasing. Holds still right there to be chased down for a proper one. “I’ll put the kettle on and get us fixed up for lunch. Go on and get off your feet.”

There are two chairs in the office, Llewellyn moves the one from the corner to be near the desk as well. He assumes it’s back there for… well, for if the ‘Smythe’ of the sign ever comes in, though he seems perhaps to be a silent partner, or for the delivery boy to have a spot to sit between making deliveries. That kind of thing. He’s been lucky enough to avoid anyone else when he comes, though it has meant watching for the boy to leave before.

He reads through some of the literary magazine on the desk, until Jack comes in with a tray, and he helpfully clears some space.

“Cream? Sugar?”

“Please.” He nods, watches Jack add both and stir, one cup and then the other. Neat, sturdy little teacups, pale blue, no chips. The daintiness of the teaspoon in Jack’s strong hand, and how precise and efficient he is with this, too. There’s something elegant in the way he does things, but it’s a masculine elegance. There’s a care and an economy and a _control_ over the way he uses his hands, be it to work or to fix a cup of tea, and it is so, so easy to be lost in watching him. And so, so easy to want to feel those hands on him. On his cheek, in his hair, kneading the soreness and the tension from his neck and shoulders, fussing with his clothing, resting on his chest, his arm, his waist… 

_Touching_ him.

He feels warm just at the thought of Jack’s hand against his bare skin, the where hardly matters. 

“Here. Help yourself.” He slides the teacup across the desk, gestures to the plate, the two sandwiches. 

The lunch break is mostly just a thing of necessity, made more pleasant by company. They don’t stop and chat through it, they eat. But… they eat, with Jack watching him fondly, and warmly, and with Jack’s foot occasionally gently tapping against his. With Jack’s sense of _satisfaction_ , at seeing him finish.

Ah. Is that what that look has meant? 

But then, he’d had that look even when it hadn’t been food he’d made. So then… much to think about, indeed.

“Come here.” Jack sets the remainder of his own sandwich aside, stands. “Come here-- before you go?”

“Not in too much of a hurry.” He nods, sliding into Jack’s arms, resting their heads together. “I did dream of you, I think-- I don’t remember, but… I think I did.”

“I should keep a photograph of you under my pillow, I might have better luck with dreams.”

“Aren’t a lot of those.” He admits. “I-- Would you… would you really want that? If I could dig a picture up?”

“Would I really want… to keep a picture… of a handsome man?” He teases. “Yes. If you find one.”

“Wait, did you want a picture of a handsome man, or did you want one of me?”

“ _Stop_.” Jack pinches his cheek. “ _You_. My handsome man.”

Llewellyn has absolutely no idea how to respond. He’s frozen in wonder, his face hot, the rest of him… curiously numb, where Jack isn’t grounding him to his own body. Dizzy. That Jack thinks him handsome is, even after these weeks of knowing each other, of meeting, such a marvelous thing. That Jack wants his photograph, flattering. That Jack, specifically, has called him _his_ … 

He has never been someone’s in this sense, but more than that… he’s never _stayed_ someone’s in any sense. And he wants to stay Jack’s.

Being at a loss for any other response, he tucks himself in close, his face against Jack’s collar. He focuses on what _is_. Jack’s vest under his hands. The way he smells of clean linen and soap and a pervasive hint of copper. The warmth of him, because he is alive, safe and alive and _here_ , and it is a logical fallacy to suppose that the act of loving Llewellyn will doom him just because so many others have died. It is perhaps not a logical fallacy to suppose that loving Llewellyn is dangerous to him, but no more than any other man. At least of himself, he can say he will do what he can to protect him. What is, what is. Jack’s hand rubbing gently over his back. The taste of tea still lingering on the back of his tongue. The floorboards beneath his feet, the way burying himself against Jack blocks out some of the light in the room. The sound of Jack’s breath, the sigh he hums out. What is, Jack, present and patient, allowing him to not understand, to not have answers.

“I’ll get it to you.” He mumbles at last, and Jack chuckles, and directs him to stand upright so that he can neaten his hair and straighten his tie. 

“Can I send you with something for the road?”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Sure? I have a summer sausage. You could take it home, save it for when you need something hearty. Especially without a kitchen.”

“... You’ve won me over.”

Jack beams, and fixes his jacket. “I’ll go and wrap that up for you.”

Llewellyn follows him, watches him select a couple of hard sausages, watches him cut a square of paper and wrap it up neatly, watches him grab his pen and scrawl something, with a little flourish. Not a label, even in any sort of shorthand, but a heart. He pockets the tightly-wrapped parcel with a smile, giving Jack a little wave before he leaves him.

He can’t shake the thought of the looks Jack gives him, and the ways that his working hypothesis doesn’t fit, and the feelings of his own that he can’t quantify. He needs to understand these things, there are answers he thinks Jack deserves to get, and things he deserves to know about himself.

It’s only as he settles into an empty typewriter to make his report on the morning’s work that he realizes he can ask, now. The ‘she’ he had invented, he can ask men who’ve had experience in love, and-- well, it won’t always be helpful. There are things which are different, with a man, the extent of which he does not really know. He hasn’t got much experience to compare men and women. But surely he can ask a few questions, and get some points clarified, even if the answers are not exact.

“George.” He frowns, not looking up from his report.”You’ve been… lucky in love.”

“Oh, and unlucky, and everything in between.”

“Mm. And you are a… keen study of human behavior.”

“Oh, well, I like to think so, Sir.”

“What does it mean when a girl tells you she... likes a man with an appetite?” He dares a glance up, and sees the look of amusement, sees George and Higgins elbow each other where they both lean over George’s desk. 

“It usually means she’s measuring you up for the suit you’ll be married in.”

Well. That can’t be right.

“That can’t be right.” He shakes his head.

“No, it does!” George insists. “Doesn’t it, Henry?”

They rope the entire constabulary into weighing in, and to a man, they all insist these are the words of a marriage-minded woman.

“It’s not that.” He insists. “Her, ah… her mother wouldn’t let us. Never agree to it.”

He can only really assume that Jack’s mother would not welcome him for a son-in-law. But… it doesn’t hurt if the others believe it’s a religious matter.

“Oh, Sirs!” George calls out, and Llewellyn sinks down further in his chair. “Sirs, what would you say it means, if a young lady-- _un_ married-- was to tell her fellow that she ‘likes a man with an appetite’?”

“Oh, it means she’s raring to go for the altar.” Brackenreid says.

And at the same time, Murdoch also. “I’m sure I don’t know, George, but I assume she means… as she says. Perhaps she simply… likes having her cooking appreciated.”

“Yes, but if a young lady likes having her cooking appreciated, she’s planning on moving her man in full-time to keep appreciating it. Why, has your lady-friend been dropping hints?”

“Oh, not mine, Sir. Ah…” George meets Llewellyn’s eye and falls silent. “Well, it was just a matter of debate, and we thought we’d get a couple more married men in on it.”

He lingers over the report he’s writing, longer than it really merits. The constables come and go over the course of the afternoon, nothing else of note comes in. He winds up accompanying George on a noise complaint just to be out of the station and moving. Which is perhaps a mistake, as it opens him up to further questions.

“What’s the lady’s name, then, Sir? I promise not to breathe a word to anyone.”

Well… George hadn’t sold him out before, when he might have said ‘it’s Watts’ girl, Sirs!’, and if he’s to make the whole cover stick, he has to be somewhat forthcoming. For instance, he has to come up with a name..

“Ella. Smythe. We-- we won’t be getting married, though. We… couldn’t.”

“Well, that’s too bad, Sir, she sounds like a very nice match for you. I know I don’t know very much about her, but I mean… if she likes to cook and you like her cooking, isn’t that one thing?”

“I think… she likes me to be… _happy_.”

“Of course she does. You’re her fellow. Only natural she wants to take care of you. Some girls cook, and some girls clean, and some girls patch you up when you’re hurt, and some girls send your manuscript in to a publisher without so much as a by-your-leave, but at heart, what every woman in love wants… is just to be happy with the one they love. A shared happiness. That’s… that’s what love is. When a man’s troubles become your own, and so does his happiness.”

When a man’s troubles become your own… that, that hits at something in his breast. He imagines he would have felt for any man who had been in Jack’s position, when they met. He’d certainly felt for Scott, deeply. He could easily see himself in Scott’s shoes. But Jack… is different. The better he knows him, the more he feels it, that he could never be happy, if Jack was not. That he could never rest easy if he couldn’t be sure of his safety. And yet, he’s now let himself become the thing which compromises that safety. Though… were he not in such a position, would he know how precious the man could be? He’s learned him over weeks of careful meetings, sometimes only a few words, sometimes a walk in which they can pour their hearts out about anything but what they’ve become to each other, and sometimes… sometimes, oh… 

Sometimes, Jack’s happiness has been his happiness. Seeing his smile and not knowing what he’d done to cause it, and being unable to keep from answering it with his own. Watching him with his friends, the quieter men of the book club, watching him talk about what he’s read, what he’d liked or disliked, watching him at ease in the company of others and dreaming… dreaming of a world in which that could be their lives, just to be at ease in the company of others. The knowledge that he would do anything to please him if he could only fight past his own fear, not only of the world but of the pattern of losses in his life-- anything from wearing the suit he likes to securing police evidence to… just anything. How quickly the attachment has built, how strong. From a first look at a photograph, to seeing him in living color, mobile, flesh and blood and freckles… it had been a fascination, or a sympathy, but how much more it is now, to feel so many of his emotions revolve around whether he has made Jack’s life better than it was.

“That’s very good, George.” He says, blinking away a little dampness. “You ought to put that in one of your books.”


	6. Ask Me How Do I Feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our detective still has some distress to get over, when it comes to accepting that he could have someone in his life, who cares for him, who he doesn't just have to worry about losing. Also, some unexpected distress over a plan gone slightly wrong, and the reminder of what he can't have.

He is in a good mood, through most of the morning-- though, he’d become increasingly aware that he’d garnered a few stares crouched and contorted over a spare desk going over notes and eating his breakfast, and there was little compelling work to do. Still, he’d enjoyed starting the morning with a breakfast furnished by his sweetheart-- he thinks he can call Jack that, now. Hadn’t he said he could be, and hadn’t he accepted… something? And as no one knows anything about where he got his breakfast, the staring can’t have anything to do with that and is more, he imagines, for the fact that he’s in a spot which isn’t his usual, and that… well, all right, and that he is not sitting normally in his chair and maybe because there is something in the manner in which he eats which is also not… normal. It’s difficult to be sure.

He is in an _exceptional_ mood, for one shining moment, he is in an exceptional mood, to be invited to a play. Not that the play itself looks very promising on the face of it, but it’s _John’s_ play. He hasn’t seen him in a while, though he’d visited him during his convalescence, when he was able, when he could bear to. When he wasn’t either working or… well, too guilty. Too paralyzed at the thought of losing one more person… and the play could be utter tripe and he’d go see it gladly, he thinks, because he owes him that. Because he owes him anything he likes after being responsible for him and all that had happened due in part to any lapse in his own judgment in the raid, and because…

And because he misses seeing him _here_. And he knows it’s silly… he knows he ought to just… just sort his feelings out and deal with it and do his job, but it’s… it’s hard not _seeing_ him. He’d come to rely on his being there, his belonging there, and even knowing that he was alive and well and pursuing something he cared about, there was something about seeing him in the hospital, and then _not_ seeing him at work. The more he could distract himself, the more he could pretend that everything was normal, but he’s hit the point at which there is no imagining that at some point John shall just walk back through the door and proceed as normal. 

Falling in love had been a hell of a distraction, but… now, when work is slow, he has the time to worry over more than one thing, the space to, and he’s finally recognized what the trouble is, which is that the stationhouse feels as if it is missing someone, and the last time he’d felt like that, it had been because they were, because Jackson… 

And this is not the same, but if it had gone differently? He would have to count himself responsible.

So it’s _lovely_ , being invited, feeling like he belongs, the mood in the office chummy and jovial and everything he’d wanted even outside of the opportunity to be there for John. The sense of being a part of things. It’s all _fine_ , because it’s him and Murdoch and George and a night at the theatre, and he wants to support a friend, and Murdoch is confirming that Doctor Ogden will be pleased to attend and George is confirming that he will only need one ticket reserved, and then the question is turned to him, and it’s a cold bucket of water dashed over him.

“Oh-- no, I-- just the one, thank you.” He scratches at his cheek, glancing away. It had seemed like such a good idea when he’d come up with it. An imaginary lady friend who had all of Jack’s most charming parts, his thoughtfulness and his knack for providing food, his striking eyes and his galaxy of soft tan freckles, his patience and his warmth. To be able to say that his mood was better of an afternoon because someone had made him a cup of tea, and fixed his tie and his hair. To be able to say he was buying flowers for someone, and expected them to be well-received, though he wasn’t sure as to which color. 

He’d had the idea, that if he had this framework in place, and if he used the thing sparingly, then he could just… talk, the way everyone did. He hadn’t foreseen this.

“Is Miss Smythe not a fan of the theatre?” George asks, sympathetic.

“She won’t be free that evening.” He says dully.

“Oh, that’s a shame.”

“Yes. I’m sure you’d have liked her.” He jams his shaking hands into his pockets, eyes fixed on the desk. “She is… as near to faultless as anyone I have ever met.”

“Well. Another time, I’m sure.” Murdoch nods. 

“Another time. Excuse me, I-- phone call. I have a phone call I need to make.”

The shop has a telephone, and he has access to records with Jack’s contact information, and he had never considered he might want to call, he does not care for the telephone-- the sound is too often garbled, and it becomes impossible to rely upon visual cues. For all that he has failed to make sense of some such cues before, he would rather have them than not have them, he would rather collect the data, and perhaps broaden his understanding of what it all means or perhaps just discard some information as useless to him at present-- but he can’t run over there, and he needs… 

He doesn’t know what he needs. He is… he is being entirely too emotional, and he ought to be pleased to have been _asked_! He ought to be pleased to have been extended the courtesy of asking whether or not he might take a lady to the theatre. He should be sensible about this and instead he is hunched over the telephone, feeling something desperate and rabbity kick out in his chest against an overwhelming weight.

“Walker and Smythe, Butchers.” Jack’s voice comes over the line at last. “How may I be of assistance?”

“It’s me. I-- I don’t know, I’m not sure. I just-- I’m just… at the phone, and I… I needed…”

A soft sigh crackles, a brief pause. “ _Llew_. What’s the matter?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“ _Try_ me.”

“I received an invitation to the theatre.”

“An odd cause for upset, I’ll grant you that. Can you make it over?”

“No.” He shifts, rubbing at the back of his neck. How much can the people around him hear? He has several times been standing near the telephone and been able to make out both sides of a conversation, but when he’d remarked on it once to someone else, he’d been met with confusion, so it must be an unusual sensitivity. “I shouldn’t have called, over this…”

“I’ve got someone browsing who’ll need me-- _when_ can you make it over?”

“Don’t know. Don’t know. Tonight.”

“All right. Tell me then. Meet me here and we’ll walk?”

“Mm. Don’t wait for me, I’ll go straight to your place if I’m held up with work… I-- I don’t know why I called, I’m being stupid.”

“I’m sure I won’t think so, when you give me a full account. I’ve got to go-- we’ll talk.”

“Yes, yes. I’ll-- tonight.”

He hangs up, looks carefully around. No one… seems to be watching him, or trying to listen in on his conversation. There’s real work to do, and the whole stationhouse seems more inclined to industry and less to gossip, even if it’s not to the magnitude of some of the work they’ve had in the past, still.

Work does hold him up. There’s a jewelry store robbery to deal with, which is granted to him, and it has him running up and down the city before it’s resolved. Rather too late to meet Jack and walk him home, but not too late to run by his own room. To pick up a bottle of wine he’d had secreted away there, to dig up a photograph of himself, and to freshen up a little. To change into a fresh shirt and a nicer tie, to splash on an eau de cologne he has had very little occasion to bother using. Late enough that as he leaves his boarding house, he hails a cab to take him over to Jack’s. A walk might clear his head and expend some useless, nervous energy, but the cab is quicker and he’s just changed into a shirt he hasn’t sweat through, so it would be a shame to go and sweat through it jogging through the streets to reach his destination.

There’s really only one problem, as he sees it, with the taxicab plan.

“Visiting your sweetheart?” Higgins asks him, face occasionally popping into view via the mirror he has mounted in the car, for… reasons. Although Llewellyn supposes he can see the merit in it.

“Just seeing a friend for dinner.”

“Of course, of course, say no more.” He winks broadly in the mirror. “What’s she like?”

“I’m just seeing a friend for dinner.” 

“Right, of course. But you can still tell me what your girl is like.”

Well… he can’t argue that. And there is less bitterness in doing so, than in standing in front of Brackenreid’s desk and trying to talk around his relationship with a man who went from someone he liked to someone he’d have let swing for murder in an instant.

“She’s… she’s very sweet. She seems to think well of me. We… we can’t get married, so.”

“Well, that’s not very fair, is it? I mean, if you like her and she likes you… I mean, not everyone in my Ruthie’s family was so keen on me, at first. Families come around. Or sometimes they don’t, but I, I don’t think that’s something you should _worry_ about. When you’re in love with someone, it doesn’t matter what anybody else thinks. I mean, and anyone who’s going to give you a hard time about it, well forget about them!”

“It’s not just her family. We really-- we just couldn’t. But… we see each other anyway. She’d… she’d rather be with me, even if there’s no future in it. And I’d rather be with her. I’ve… I’ve tried, before. I thought it wasn’t for me anyway, love, being with someone. But… When I see her, she asks me if I’ve eaten. And when I leave her, she… she takes my hat, from the hat rack, sometimes. And she puts it on my head. And she tells me… she tells me I’d better hurry and leave or she’ll keep me. And I’d like to be kept.”

“What if you got married twice?”

“We can’t get married _once_.”

“No, but… if her family wants her to get married with a priest, and you need to get married with a rabbi, why not do it twice? Or, you could have them both do it at once, just… somewhere. Not in an actual church.”

“I still don’t think her mother would stand for it… There’s a lot of reasons why we can’t-- but… thank you. That’s… that’s certainly an _idea_.”

“Well, I’m happy to help.” Higgins nods, cheerfully. 

“Mm.” 

Help may be a bit of a stretch, but he feels better. Not the idea of trying to accommodate different religious needs, but… even if he doesn’t know, even if he wouldn’t say he same thing if he did know, there is something comforting in being told not to bother with what anyone else thinks. 

“Is she pretty, though? Nice figure?”

“I’m not going to speak to her figure. I mean, yes. I mean, she… looks well, in a bathing costume. I like looking at her. I like the way she smiles, and… she has freckles.”

“Oh. Well, nobody’s perfect. Still, you can tell a lot about a woman by how she looks in a bathing costume. Like, what her calves are like. Well, you can tell one thing about a woman by how she looks in a bathing costume.”

His brow furrows. He’s not sure at what point he gave the impression that Jack-- or, the person of his very female and somewhat imaginary lady friend-- was not perfect. And he’s not sure how much information calves are really supposed to be worth in the grand scheme of things. He’s saved by having to say more, when they arrive at Jack’s building, and he’s able to pay to exit the conversation. If only he could pay to exit any conversation which proved tedious enough… but then, that’s a fast way to lose all your money.

Higgins knowing this much about where he goes is… not something he’s exactly _easy_ with, but on the other hand, it is Higgins, who might not remember later, and who isn’t exactly the most piercing observer. Maybe if he were trying, it would be trouble, but this isn’t Higgins trying to work a case, even.

He hurries up the stairs to Jack’s door, sees the concern on his face quickly give way to a smile when he holds up the bottle of wine.

“The versatile red you once promised me?” He bites his lip against a burgeoning grin, and stands aside to let Llewellyn in. “Hi, there.”

“Hello yourself.” He sets the bottle on the table, lets Jack take his hat and coat-- and then his jacket. “Is that dinner? That smells _fantastic_.”

“I’ll pull it out of the oven in a minute, but it’ll have to rest. Do you want to tell me what’s wrong with the theatre?” Jack steers him to sit, and stands behind his chair, hands starting in on his shoulders. “How do you _stand_ feeling like this?”

“Not much alternative.” He groans, head falling back.

“These muscles are so _tight_ , it’s a wonder you can even move your neck at all…”

“Mm. My friend John is in a play. Nothing I’ve heard of, I think it’s new. Not to disparage new playwrights, but there really is no way of knowing if it’s good before going, if I can’t read it beforehand. But that’s not-- _oh_...”

“Good ‘oh’? _Breathe_.”

“Don’t stop doing that.” Llewellyn begs-- is prepared to beg more, if it means getting that knot unraveled. He’s had the aching tension in his neck and shoulders for so long that he forgot what it was like not to have it. Has he ever known? He’s been tense for literally as long as he can remember.

“I’ll have to stop eventually.” Jack chuckles warmly, and digs in, and some part of Llewellyn’s brain ceases to tick entirely. “Or dinner will dry out.”

“I’ll still like it.”

“I’m not serving you dry meat the first time I make you a real dinner. I have my pride, Detective.”

“Ooh… oh, I don’t.”

“Try rolling your neck now.” Jack’s hands stop in their firmer ministrations, but he keeps stroking gently over Llewellyn’s shoulders as he does what he’s told, feeling the fresh ease in some of the muscles. “How’s that feel?”

“You’re a miracle worker.”

“You’re a disaster.” Jack says sweetly, and bends down and kisses his ear. “I’ll be right back, I can work on you a little more while dinner rests.”

The aroma already fills the cozy space as it is, but there’s a fresh wave of it when the roasting pan comes out of the oven. 

“Have you got a corkscrew? I ought to let the wine breathe, as long as the meat is resting.”

“Here!” Jack fishes one from a drawer, and slides it over to him. “The wine can breathe, the meat can rest, and with any luck you can do a little bit of both. So what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s… foolish. My friend John is in this play, and so I’ve been invited to attend the opening night, and… it’s not that I don’t want to, I do. I would… I would be spending the evening with friends there, people-- I was asked if I would need a second ticket, for a lady friend. And I…”

Jack makes a soft, understanding sound, and comes over to resume kneading at his shoulders, gentler now. 

“It’s John Brackenreid.” He continues, when Jack says nothing. “And… and I just-- You and I could go to the theatre, as friends, and sit among strangers, and discuss the show so far over a drink during the intermission, and leave together discussing it, and strangers wouldn’t know, strangers wouldn’t look at us. But I… I could never bring you around. Even… even something I was free to bring a friend to, I… They know what I did. They know that I released you.”

“What?” The kneading stops.

“I thought if I told them I let you go for an hour and you came back, once it was all said and done, that you helped me and you kept your word and you were in your cell, maybe… I don’t know. It would prove something.”

“You told-- who?”

“Brackenreid. Murdoch-- the other detective who was on the case. I thought it would prove something. I just wanted… I wanted to give you back something.”

“I got a fairer shake than I expected. This… could have followed me. It could have ruined me.” He resumes the massage. “I can accept a loss of personal trust, I did lie. But… it’s sweet. That you hoped to restore that.”

“But I didn’t. And… they know, how we met. What I did. If I even mention you, it’s suspicious, if I bring you to meet my friends, it’s… And I’m seeing a friend and I can’t tell him that I’ve met someone who makes me happy, without lying about a very fundamental aspect of who you are and why I-- what I find attractive, in you.”

Jack’s arm wraps around him, he is urged to lean back, to rest his head against Jack’s midsection. He can feel him breathe. Feel the warmth of him, even just being held like this.

“You can talk to mine. I know it’s not the same… but they’ll listen. And you can talk to me. I think I’d love to hear what you find attractive in me.” A teasing note creeps into his tone. “You tell me a secret and I’ll tell you one.”

He ducks his head, pressing a kiss to Jack’s forearm, and then another.

“ _This_. Your arms. I… I could watch you work at anything, just to see the way the muscle moves beneath the skin, the flex of tendons.”

“Most of my work isn’t very pretty.”

“Neither is mine.” He groans into Jack’s arm, tries to trace the path of the highest concentration of freckles. “And I still find your freckles distracting.”

“You should see me in summer. I get them everywhere, they get darker than this. I mean… If you think--”

“Everywhere?”

“Everywhere the sun sees me. Which… with the right holiday, can be more than a little of me.”

He licks his lips. “Oh.”

“We could go someplace. In summer. Away from the city, just a couple of days, if you think you’d like that.”

“I like getting away from the city.” He nods, shifting in his chair to try and press closer despite the back of the chair between them. “Traveling. Seeing where the wind takes me, whenever I have a little money and a little time off to travel with. I guess it’s easy to go without an anchor, when there’s no one at home who wants you.”

“Would it be nicer to get to travel with someone who wants you?” Jack’s voice is soft. There’s a tremor under it. 

“I always imagined so. I could never test the hypothesis.”

“Dinner’ll be ready.” He gives Llewellyn a squeeze, before moving away. “There’s wine glasses in that cupboard there.”

“All right.”

“Llew--”

He turns, to see Jack standing between his oven and his table, one plate in hand.

“Yes?”

“Your hands. I think about your hands-- I think about them every time you go. When you slipped out that morning, I went and I laid in bed, with my own hand resting on my chest, and I tried to imagine you were still here.”

“Jack…”

“And your eyes. I think your eyes are beautiful.”

“You move _well_. I like seeing you do things. Just anything.”

And he turns away, shy, and he gets their dinners plated while Llewellyn pours the wine, and neither of them can find the words, until Jack lifts his glass in a toast and some of the curious tension can melt.

“Cheers.” He says, soft. “To… finding things in unexpected places.”

“To finding things in unexpected places. To you.” Llewellyn amends shyly.

“To us?”

“Us.” He nods.

The wine pairs well with dinner, and dinner is as good as it had smelled-- is so good that most of what Llewellyn had intended to say about the wine he’d brought is lost in the wordless praise he has to heap on the food. Still, he says enough, here and there, for Jack to pick up on.

“You know a lot about wine?”

“Mm. I’m not an expert, by any means. I have very much enjoyed _learning_. It is both an art and a science, and a pleasant thing to pass a little time with besides. I like… understanding things. And I do like drinking it. There’s a good deal to know, about soil and weather conditions, and the balancing act it takes, and I’m really only beginning to have a grasp on how the full picture is created. It takes an expert _years_ to truly learn… all the ins and outs of the thing.”

“I-- I like that about you.”

“That I know a little bit about wine? I suppose it makes up for how little I can contribute when it comes to cooking--”

“No. That you’re enthusiastic about knowing it. That you… I don’t know. That you’re not one of those men who just pays a man to give him his opinions. It’s just… There is this world, and I don’t belong in it, but I don’t belong in any other, and there are so many men who… maybe because they can afford to and maybe because they have nothing else, who pay one man to tell them what wines they like and another man to tell them what antiques to buy and another man to tell them what shoes to wear, and… it’s just empty. And I work a trade, and I don’t… I don’t belong. Owen liked that world, I suppose what I liked about him was… he really did care about things, even if he lived in the same bubble with the same trends. He really did know about his stamps and he really did care about people. And-- and it’s… that’s part of what’s drawn me to you. That you really do care about people. And that you-- you taught yourself Greek and you want to understand why… why wine-- is, how it is, instead of settling on being told what is and isn’t good. I like that about you.”

“I like that you think about your mother. I mean-- I… I haven’t had one to think about in a long time. I like to think I could have been half as dutiful if I’d managed to hold onto one. You… you think about her first even when you are in impossible, dangerous circumstances. And you… and you-- you think about me. I don’t… really know what to do with that. But I-- but you do. Sometimes I feel as if you shouldn’t, and you do.”

“You reached out to me. What else was I supposed to do?” Jack’s foot rests against his beneath the table, with a gentle tap. 

“I like that you’re-- I like that you work a trade, for that matter. I mean… look at me, what do I come from? I don’t… I don’t know what it’s like to go out and meet men. I don’t think there are more men like us who come from money than who come from none, but I think it makes it easier for a man to advertise.”

“It does. I’ve seen it.”

“I just mean… I wouldn’t know how to breathe, in all that, or who to talk to, or who to trust. I don’t know how to navigate these things. But you… you know what the world is like for me. And, let it not be said I don’t appreciate the application of your craft.” He says, pointing his fork at Jack. “You… you know your way around a sausage.”

“That, too.” Jack smiles down at his plate, cheeks pinking. 

“And I like listening to you at the book club.”

“You do?” He looks up again, sudden.

“Of course I do. You share your thoughts, opinions, viewpoints. I found you illuminating.”

“Oh.” He goes even pinker. “I’ve always felt… I mean I like going, and talking, but-- they all… studied things. Went to universities. I just like to read, I don’t-- Me?”

“ _Illuminating_. You… question different things. You see different things. Maybe because you didn’t go to university-- there’s a lot to be said for a formal education, I’m sure, but you are, in a sense, paying for another man’s opinions. Sometimes he is learned, discerning, wise… sometimes he is an ass repeating the words of another ass, and you can’t know which is which when you begin taking instruction. Why not gather all the information you can on your own and do your level best to sort through it sensibly? You draw parallels, you make inferences, you do all the same things you might have learned in school. But you don’t get any ideas drummed out of you because it’s not done that way. You’re allowed to fully grapple with them and test them to see if they hold water, rather than bow to tradition. Anyhow, I… yes.”

“Oh. Well.” Jack smiles. “Maybe we’re two of a kind, then. Maybe we both… just had to teach ourselves some things. And maybe that’s-- Maybe if I see that quality in you as being admirable, I ought to be able to take pride in it in myself, not shame.”

“I suppose I could… by that same token, if I recognize something in you as-- as good, as wonderful even, then… if I am at all the same, I should… I should like that piece of myself.”

“I hope you’ll like all the pieces of yourself. I know once you tried to tell me your bad points… but I find it very hard to believe them.”

“I’ve been told--”

“By people who don’t see you. I think your face is very kind, Llewellyn. And I think your voice is very agreeable. And I think you are-- unlike anyone else. And I think you are charming.”

“I-- I don’t… Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you.”

He dares a smile, lifting his eyes to meet Jack’s once more. “You’re welcome.”

“So… dinner was a success?”

Llewllyn nods, then shoots to his feet, the memory of the photograph in his jacket pocket spurring him. “Oh-- and I brought you something!”

“I thought you brought me wine. It went well, I also thought.”

“Something else-- I believe you requested it.” He fishes it out. “Now-- don’t laugh. It’s-- I don’t have any recent photographs. So it’s… it’s a little out of date.”

He presents it anyway, watches Jack’s face carefully, the light in his eyes as he traces over it, the way he hides his smile in one hand. A gesture he doesn’t think about making, but suddenly Llewellyn understands Shakespeare’s ‘O, that I were a glove upon that hand’. He’d scoffed at it before, he’d scoffed at most of Romeo and Juliet once, but would that he were. Would that he was somewhere between Jack’s hand and his lips, he’d never ask for anything else.

“A man in uniform.” Jack looks up at him, eyes shining with some melange of amusement and heat. 

“I don’t think anyone’s… photographed me. Since I was a constable.” He blushes. He never knows what to do with the way Jack looks at him, be it this look or the other one, the one he’d favored him with through all of dinner. 

“Thank you.” And he leans up, lips just brushing Llewellyn’s cheek. “Really. I’ll treasure it. I’ll buy a frame. I’ll keep it by my bed.”

“In a frame?”

Jack nods. “Right on my nightstand. I’ll wake up to that face.” He cups said face in his free hand, he kisses the chin of said face, the lips. Soft, and yet there is something in the way he lingers so close. A moment, and he dances away, to put the photograph in its place of honor awaiting a frame, to clear the table.

Somewhere, a neighbor begins playing violin, as Jack takes the dishes to his sink, and Llewellyn stops him from seeing to the washing up just yet with a touch. His hand at Jack’s waist, and Jack turns, wraps his arms around him.

“Can I ask you a silly question?”

“Can I give you a silly answer?”

“You could, but I am relying on you for my information in the matter, being as I have never been to… certain sorts of parties, or-- or been around many of the men who go to them. Or done any of these things with any man who isn’t you.”

“Then it’s not a silly question.” Jack says, more soberly. “Go ahead.”

“It’s just… I’ve never… danced with another man.”

“You’ve never… _danced_?” He looks away, just a touch pink, one hand stroking a gentle back and forth over Llewellyn’s shoulder.

“You have, haven’t you? I mean, I know you said the parties were never your-- But still, you’ve… you’ve tried it?”

“Yes. Of course.” Jack’s voice is hushed, but he’s drawn so near, and Llewellyn is not yet sure where to put his hands, though he thinks one of them belongs at Jack’s waist. “The nights I spent at Owen’s aren’t exactly a secret, that-- that went on. It was a lot of the reason.”

Which hand belongs where it is is yet a mystery, for now he leaves both there and awaits any forthcoming instruction.

“What I wanted to know…” He continues, soldiering on through the embarrassment. “Besides _how_ , that is. What I wanted to know is, when you’re dancing with another man, how do you determine who leads?”

“Ah…”

“Is it the man who asks, or does it matter if one party is taller-- and if no one is considerably taller, then-- Or is there some other way of… when you’re at a party and meeting men and-- Is there some other way of letting a man know your preference?”

“Well.” Jack smooths over his shoulder, before his hand comes to rest on his chest. He still doesn’t meet his eyes. “If I had seen you at a party… and I had asked you, if you wanted to… _dance_ , then I suppose I would ask you, if you had a preference, for who leads.”

“Mm. That’s no good, I wouldn’t know. I’ve never done it. Is there one way that’s easier to _teach_?”

“Well… no. I think I could teach both parts. And… if you told me you were unsure, then I would say I hoped you would give me the opportunity to show you both.” He says, his voice low, warm, his lips brushing the hinge of Llewellyn’s jaw. “And then you would know what you liked.”

“What about your preference?”

“My-- well… I suppose I have always given way to a partner’s preference. But when I picture dancing with you, I… imagine myself taking the lead.”

“All right.” He sighs, resting their heads together. “You’re going to have to show me where my hands go.”

“You’ll pick that up.” Jack laughs. “Trust me.”

“And I know it’s a tight space for a waltz, but I thought, there’s music--”

“... Waltz?” Jack pulls back, meeting his eye.

“Two-step?”

“You’re talking about the _waltz_.”

“Well, we definitely don’t have room for a mazurka.”

“No, I just thought--” He starts, then stops, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “Give me your hand-- other hand, sorry, and put this one here on my arm. Now. Head up, shoulders down and back, and when I come forward, you bring your left foot back before I can step on you. Keep your hand on me and… just feel how I’m moving you. I’ll guide you, you just have to come with me.”

Llewellyn nods, and lets Jack’s body direct his. He talks him through it still at first, but soon his voice falls away and it is just the way it feels to be in his arms and to respond to him. Dizzying. They _don’t_ have much space for a waltz, but it doesn’t matter.

“I could do this all night.” He sighs.

“Your feet would get tired eventually.” Jack holds him even closer. The music has long since stopped, they have not. “But I’m willing to see how long it takes us.”

“Oh no, I’m indefatigable. You have me on air, Mister Walker.”

“So don’t go. We’ll keep on dancing.”

At that, he does falter. “What time is it?”

“Late. I don’t know.” Jack lifts his head from Llewellyn’s shoulder. “Late for a cab in this neighborhood. Cold, to walk eight blocks. Was this what I was like, when I was new to it all? Well… I probably was. So it’s not very fair of me to complain… it takes time to adjust and move past the fear, I know, I know. But you-- you could be safe here. No rush-- just a little gentle urging. Just… reminding you you’re welcome, when you decide you’re ready.”

“I’ve lost everyone, Jack, that’s all.” He kisses his cheek. “Everyone I get close to… they leave, or they-- and I don’t know. And you’ve seen the worst of me and you didn’t leave, so what does that mean?”

“You know what it means. I’m not going to leave you.”

“Maybe it’s safer to. I’m not saying I would like it, but I could think you were safe, and I--”

“Llewellyn. I am never going to _be_ safe. But I am _alive_. You can’t save me by keeping me at arms’ length. You can take your time, you can say it’s not the right night, you can say nothing will happen, I’m not angry. But I want you to try to accept that just maybe, I’m not going anywhere. Just… tell me it’s late and you have to go home, _without_ flinching like some disaster is waiting.”

“I feel like I hurt you, when I go. But staying, I… You could lose your _home_. You’ve already been in jail and I-- I couldn’t protect you, if anyone knew about us. I couldn’t take care of you. And I couldn’t lose you.”

“I know we’re living in twilight. I know I only half get you. But Llew… I wish you could let me love you.”

It isn’t so simple, much as he wishes it was. Jack can tell him he’s alive _now_ , but tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow? That’s something else he understands now, more deeply than he used to. How much more he worries… what the fear is truly like. No more a melancholy semi-awareness of the place tragedy has held in his life, but an occupying fear. Jackson turned the crank on it once, and then seeing what had happened to Hubert… he’d failed both of them and he wouldn’t be in a position to keep Jack safe if they were any less than perfectly careful. He has pleasant dreams, but he also has to wrestle with the nightmares. 

“I-- I should go.” He shakes his head, breaks away, and whatever Jack has said about how he’s allowed to go if he’s not comfortable staying, he _knows_ this hurts him. He knows… but he can’t stop the parade of thoughts-- he and Jack, discovered here. Jack, homeless. Being called into an office and showed a photograph of Jack, bloodied and barely recognizable. Not knowing if he was alive or dead, knowing if he was he would be prosecuted, being questioned about their involvement, never seeing him again, never knowing… but knowing if he lived, it would not be well. Jack, ill in prison, menaced at every turn. Jack… Jack just _gone_ , and because of him.

He finds himself halfway down to the ground floor of Jack’s building, with his hat and his coat, though not his jacket, his heart and head pounding, and he stops. 

What is he doing? He’s afraid of losing Jack, so-- so what? If he runs away, if he keeps running away, he _will_ lose him. And Jack’s not wrong… there isn’t a ‘safe’, not for them, not without ignoring everything about what they feel and what they want. Can he do that? He has for so long, but now? Now, when he’s spent the evening held close to Jack’s body, there in his arms, until the only music they needed was in their heads and the clock didn’t matter? Could he forget what it was to be kissed, slow and gentle? Could he pretend he didn’t ache to discover him by summer, to lie by the side of some secluded lake and count the freckles to bloom across his collarbone, his thighs?

Is it worth the risk, to have him now? To be able to love him? Isn’t it?

He thinks of Jack, lonely. Hurt. Heartbroken. He thinks of Jack taking the wrong risk, on the wrong man. Being rounded up, with him not there to step in and try _something_. Every single one of those dangers he fears is there if Llewellyn is not. The difference is, does he at least get to try to be happy, first? With a man who wants him to be happy, who wants to make him happy. Maybe the only person who’s ever worked like _this_ for his happiness. 

He strides back up to Jack’s door, knocking softly but urgently, and the moment the door is opened to him, he is inside, he is pulling the door closed and pulling Jack into his arms, and he’s kissed him, yes, but he has never kissed him like this. He’s never just let go of everything and _kissed_ him, he hadn’t even realized he could kiss like this. 

“I love you.” He buries his face against Jack’s neck, can’t look at him, can only hold onto him and try not to tremble too badly. “I am in love with you. I am in love with you.”

“ _Llewellyn_ …” Jack squeezes him tight. There’s a hand in his hair, he has no idea what’s become of his hat. “Llew, please… please just tell me…”

“Give me a little time.” His hand finds Jack’s cheek, he clings to him even harder. “Give me a little time before you ask me again, I-- It’s so _much_ , and I have never-- I have never done this. Not with a man, not with anyone. Not even alone, feeling for someone else and never letting it show.”

“I wasn’t trying to push you, I only… You seem so certain you won’t be loved, beloved, you are.”

“Can we do this again, in a week? Can we… can we plan for me to stay?”

“Yes.” Jack kisses his temple, before asking him to straighten, firm hands guiding him. “Nerves are to be expected… You don’t _have_ to stay just because you plan to. But I can plan to wake early with you. I can plan to make breakfast for two. I can plan to make staying worth your while...”

“I’ve spoiled the mood for tonight.” He sniffs, but he lets Jack take his coat. To his surprise, it’s only to help him on with his jacket, and then to help him get his coat back on. 

“You came back.” Jack reminds him, getting his hat set back in place. “Wait just a moment. You can still get home, but-- wait?”

Llewellyn nods, standing there as Jack moves around the room. He comes back with a scarf, and a pair of gloves, and Plato’s Symposium.

“You don’t want to hold onto it? To know I have to come back?”

“You love me.” Jack smiles softly, and winds the scarf around his neck as he gets the borrowed gloves on. “You’ll come back again. Next week, dinner-- but… if you want just to see me, before then, you-- you could.”

“I love you. I will. I don’t… I don’t know when, I just… I need to-- This is my mess.” He taps his forehead. “I would like to try and tidy it up before I-- I would like to do better. I can hardly fathom how you’ve come to love me. But I _will_ be a man worthy of your love.”

“When it is not so late at night, I can tell you how I came to love you. But you won’t get any sleep if you don’t go. You can leave the gloves and scarf at the shop, if--” Jack cuts himself off with a heaving sigh, and a last, soft touch to Llewellyn’s cheek. “Stay warm. Stay safe. Tell me about your friend’s play, when I see you again.”

“I will. And I will. And I will.” He nods. 

  
Later in the week, he can ask at the shop what sort of menu Jack has planned, so that he can select the right wine. Flowers, maybe, or… or _something_. They can do this night over. And he’ll find out what he needs to do with himself, to be able to _stay_.


	7. Maybe You Could Show Me How To Let Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #WattsGetTherapyChallenge

“I didn’t know who else to call on.” He admits, throwing himself into the chaise longue and finding no real comfortable way of arranging himself there. He settles on lying on his back with his legs hanging off at either side, feet planted on the floor, to keep from getting his shoes on the upholstery. “I can’t go to an alienist. I don’t… I don’t want to talk to a stranger. I don’t want-- I don’t want-- I know what they would say about me. They wouldn’t understand.”

“Well, whatever the trouble is… I do have some experience. Why don’t you tell me about your problem, and I’ll see what I can do?” 

This is… a different kind of dangerous. Talking to someone he knows. But with someone he knows, he has a lie in place and it will have to serve. He just… for so many reasons, he doesn’t want to go and talk to someone… years of being given rather unflattering assessments of his mental health have served to build up something of a resistance to the idea of letting someone else poke at his thoughts. But… given the troubling nature of his thoughts of late, there may be some value in it, in someone understanding. Besides, if he can trust the stitching up of his body to her-- as he’d once needed to-- couldn’t he trust also the stitching up of his mind?

“I’ve recently begun… a courtship. I-- I’d rather not go into the personal details, how we met, all that, but. Suffice to say, we… we get along very well. And every time she… invites me to get closer, let’s say, I have a-- a problem.”

“And you think the problem is of a psychological nature?”

“Well, I don’t know what else it would be, Doctor.” His brow furrows, and he glances over at the desk, where Doctor Ogden is sitting, poised to make notes. 

“Are you attracted to this woman?”

“Yes.” He turns back to the ceiling, stomach small.

“And have you ruled out any physical causes?”

“I can’t imagine there’s a physical reason why I run for the door every time she tries to make me feel at home.”

“Oh. I see.” She scratches something out, fills something else in. “Perhaps you had better explain the precise nature of the problem from the top.”

“I care for her very much. And I have come to believe that she cares for me likewise, though I-- I don’t always understand that. I don’t believe her family would approve of our relationship. I don’t… I don’t have a family to approve or disapprove. In fact, I’ve lost… I’ve lost everyone else I have ever really cared for. To one thing or another.”

“And you worry that the same will happen to your sweetheart. That’s a natural reaction to trauma, but it’s based on a logical fallacy.”

“I know it’s not… I know it’s not sensible to behave as if she has doomed herself by choosing me over anyone else, but-- Let us say ours is a union… much maligned by society, or would be, and let us leave it at that. I can’t convince myself it is a logical fallacy that I put her at danger when our relationship, if discovered by the wrong people, _could_ put her in danger. As for trauma, I… I don’t-- ‘trauma’, that’s…”

“Yes, trauma. What happened to your brother… if that doesn’t count, I don’t know what does. You have _suffered_ , it has colored your perception of the world. That doesn’t make you crazy.” She presses. 

“I have… well, yes, I have-- it was… It was deeply upsetting, I-- And since we were young, I haven’t much had what I suppose you could call a real _home_. I like being free, I like being mobile, it’s not… it’s not upsetting to me to wander, but… when h-- when she offers me a home, I want to take it. I want to be able to stay if I’m asked to. But I get hot and itchy and it’s hard to breathe, and I can’t be, I can’t be there. I need to be-- out of doors, or… I need to be alone, or I need to be in motion. I want to be able to be… I want to let her do things for me, but I’ve never… I have very little experience being cared for. When I was adopted, I was provided for, but I was as much caretaker as caretaken. I had brothers who needed me. And… then I was on my own.”

“It’s _all right_ to let someone take care of you. In fact, I think it’s imperative. Not because you’re worried about hurting this girl’s feelings by denying her, but…” She pauses, sighs. He hears the sound of the notepad set against the desk, faint. “From what I know of you, you take a lot of responsibility for the safety of others. Not only your duty to the public, but in your relationships within the constabulary. You concern yourself with the well-being of those around you. You work very hard to see that others are taken care of.”

“I suppose so.”

“But that’s only half of the social contract. You care for others, you work hard for others… but you need to allow others to help you, care for you.”

“Yes, but _how_?”

“Well, how about you and I?” She asks. “You were a great help to William and I once, and now, I have the opportunity to return that by helping you. And helping you isn’t a burden to me. I am happy to do it, because you are a friend. Because you have built up goodwill with me. Because… because you _deserve_ to be cared for. And I’d wager it would make your lady friend happy to be able to care for you. There must be things that you do for her.”

“I try to.”

“Try to think of the things you do for her, list a few.”

He _can’t_ , that’s the thing, he can’t talk about the biggest things he’s done for Jack, or would do for him.

“Mm. Walked her home, a couple of times. We… talked, about-- a problem she had. I, uh… I returned something to her, that she’d lost. I… little, little things that I could give her, but it’s not much, it’s not enough. Theoretically, I would… I would do anything to keep hi-- her-- safe.”

He covers for the near slip with a cough, and hopes it’s enough, but doesn’t trust that it will be. This is why he couldn’t go to someone… slipping into this openness, letting himself be too easily read. He scrubs at his face with a groan.

“How does it make you feel, when you can do things for her?” She asks, and he tries to analyze whether she had hesitated on that ‘her’.

“Good. Like I-- like I have a reason to be here, like I can… like I matter. If I can make her smile, then I’ve done something, even if I don’t know what it is, and I-- I don’t know.”

“Do you feel as if you don’t matter, when you aren’t doing something for someone else?”

“I know that’s not true. I… have the same inherent worth as anyone. But I… I don’t know what else to do about it. I don’t feel right… I don’t feel right if I’m letting someone just take care of me. Like I’m not… I haven’t earned it, and-- I could. If I worked hard enough, she’d love me. If I was good enough and I did something right and I didn’t need to be taken care of, she’d love me.”

There is no hesitating over pronouns here-- just the sinking realization that he doesn’t only mean Jack, that he has never really handled any of his trauma. That ‘trauma’ is an accurate word, and has been for a very long time, while he’s told himself others have it worse, while he’s divorced his work from his emotions as best he could, tried to divorce himself from his emotions only to continually fail.

“I think your sweetheart probably _wants_ you to need to be taken care of, some of the time. You show her that you’re there for her, and that you’re willing to protect her, I certainly have no doubt of that. But… a relationship is a partnership. It’s not one person taking complete care of another, but two souls in equal measure, who must find ways of supporting and caring for each other. By denying her the opportunity to do little things for you, you limit the ways in which she can tell you that she loves you. You walk her home at night, help her with problems she trusts to you, you… you make the greater world seem like a safer place. And you feel good when you get to do those things, they give your life and your relationship a deeper meaning. Don’t you think it makes her feel good to take care of you, too?”

“I… I hadn’t considered. I’ve always been a-- a burden. Until I could work.”

“That isn’t true.” Dr. Ogden leans forward, tone gentle. “If you’re referring to your childhood, no child is a _burden_ \-- it’s just that not everyone can raise a child properly.”

“I was a burden to my sister. I had to work not to be one to m--”

“Your sister was also a grieving orphan, she lacked the capacity then to be a parent and left you with the only person she could think to, that is _not_ the same as your being a burden. You have been in difficult situations, much was expected of you, but not because it was reasonable to expect it. I imagine it was quite early on that you strove to rise to and above expectation. Your fear of being a burden pushed you to work hard and ask little, but that fear… it comes from bitter experience, it comes from a real place, but it has led you to place unreasonable restrictions on yourself. To ask for _too_ little. People, we ask each other for things, and give them, and it’s part of life. That’s true among all sorts of relationships. It’s an important part of building connection.”

“Whenever I’ve begun to… to open up to someone, it’s-- and, I know this one is unrealistic to-- I know people don’t die _because_ I trust them or care for them, but… they’ve still all died. My parents. Both my brothers, the only real friends I grew up with, who… who understood _me_ , too. Jackson might not have died because I confided in him, but he died because he volunteered for a dangerous undertaking I did much of the planning for. I could have done more to keep him safe, I should have done more to keep him safe. And John could have died because I-- because we were working together, and _I_ wasn’t careful enough, I wasn’t prepared enough. And he’s all right now, but sometimes it feels-- Is that insane? Like I forget he didn’t die, too.”

“No. You miss time spent with your friend, that’s… about as sane a reaction as a person can have. Part of the job is risk, it’s a truth you’ll have to grapple with-- it’s a truth I grapple with as well. And when you’re responsible for constables working under you, you can carry a tremendous amount of guilt when something goes wrong. But these are adult men who know the dangers involved in the job they do. Any time someone disappears from your daily routine, it’s something to deal with, but when that comes after a close call, a lengthy hospital stay?”

“It’s not foolish that I look over to where he would normally be, if he still worked with us, and there’s… moments, sometimes, where it’s as if I don’t know-- just for a moment-- that he recovered?” He breaks from his contemplation of the ceiling to look at her.

“No. It’s not foolish. And you’ll see him tonight, and I think that will help with that. As for learning to let yourself be cared for… it’s going to be a process. You’re aware of the fact that many of the thought processes behind your actions are illogical, but knowing whether a thing is logical or not is a very small part sometimes, when you’re breaking from a lifetime of ingrained habit. Whether you fear that she might not love you if you rely upon her too much, or you fear that by opening yourself up to her more fully, you risk the pain of losing her… you know when you’re not being sensible. Now you have to learn how to talk yourself down from acting on those fears.”

“Just… talk myself out of it?”

“Yes, until it becomes easier. We’ve talked about how you feel, when you can do things for her, tangible or intangible. What sorts of things does she do for you-- do you find any of them easier to accept?”

“Food. She-- she likes to, I know she likes to see me eat. Even when I’d bought us something, she… she looks at me differently, when I’m eating. I still don’t know entirely what to make of it. If it was only when she made something, I think I would understand. At work, the, uh, the fellows think… they think it’s a sort of an application for marriage? But we know we can’t be married. And it’s how she looks at me whether she’s made a full dinner or we’ve gone to a dinner party with her friends and one of them cooked, or if I bought us something, or if she picked something up for me from another butcher.” He says, gesturing loosely up towards the ceiling, where he’s re-painting the tapestry of mental images for himself. And then he realizes he’s said ‘another butcher’. “What I mean is, not _her_ butcher, who-- She went to a kosher butcher, because she wasn’t sure if I was very strict, but she-- she knows, that I’d been trying it to see.”

“It sounds like she’s a very thoughtful person. And she cares about you, and what’s important to you. It also sounds like she’s less concerned with the pride of having provided you with a good meal, and more concerned with your health and happiness at getting one. And if her satisfaction comes from yours, you might consider it a favor to her to allow her to take care of you, if it’s difficult to frame it otherwise. In time, I hope you’ll be able to say that you deserve to be taken care of, that you will be safe showing vulnerability to others, and that you can be comfortable with a give and take where you are not the sole provider of care. But in the meantime, tell yourself she deserves to feel as good as you do when you do things for her.”

“I… I could try that. It-- it feels nice, when-- when she does… things. She fixes my tie and how my jacket sits, and my hair, and it… no one _does_ these things, no one’s _done_ them, it’s not that I don’t like it. I don’t know how to act. Sometimes I… it’s like I’m frozen and I just… she does these things and I can’t speak or-- I can’t handle… I don’t even know what I feel, sometimes, but I-- When I was last with her, she… I brought wine, she made dinner. She… had me sit down, so she could rub my shoulders. And… and it was good. And I want that. It felt… like I’d just been allowing myself to be in unnecessary pain for so long, and it never occurred to me I could get relief from it? She thinks of these things. And… she taught me to dance, her neighbor plays violin and it… it comes through the walls, and I forgot about everything until she told me I could stay. I realized it had gotten late. I realized what it would mean, if I left her room in the morning.”

“I’m sure that’s something she’s well aware of.”

“Mm.” He frowns, steepling his fingers under his chin, hands resting on his chest. “Well, yes. Yes, of course. Naturally, it-- it would be. And I stayed there once, but it was an emergency, of sorts, I think.”

“You think?” She probes.

“There was a storm, and I was… I didn’t have my coat and hat. I don’t know-- I don’t remember deciding to go to hi-- I don’t remember much. I was… thinking about all of this, it boiled over, and then… It was like I was numb, and-- _she_ was caring for me. She had to hang my wet things by the fire, I ought to have felt something. Embarrassed. We’d never… undressed, before. We still haven’t, not-- So I should have felt something. Shame. But it was as if I was empty.”

“That can also be normal, when you’ve had a period of great duress. You were in a safe place, and you might not have been able to respond in a way that you might call appropriate, but you were able to accept care, that’s something. Now… the trick will be learning to accept that care when you _haven’t_ been close to breaking first. Perhaps, letting her care for you in order to avoid hitting a breaking point.”

“She wants me to stay. And I want to stay. Why is it so hard?”

“Probably for a lot of reasons. Your worries about how society perceives your relationship, and how a relationship not destined for the altar, however serious, will be treated. Your difficulties in allowing yourself to be cared for. It sounds like you _have_ had successes, when you don’t overthink it. Perhaps… perhaps, in addition to just talking yourself down rationally when the worries take hold, you ought to find activities which… cut past the part of you that overthinks and rejects shows of care.”

“Mm. Elaborate.” He frowns in thought, waving a hand. 

“Well… you were able to enjoy a massage. A meal. A dance. Maybe, if your sweetheart offers… the key to overcoming your fears is to engage in… sensual pleasures.”

“That is… a very modern recommendation, Doctor.”

“Yes, well.” She laughs. “If it works. And… Detective, I hope you know that you can call on me again if you need someone to talk to-- and that anything you say to me, even if I am not currently practicing psychiatry in a professional setting-- well, it remains confidential. If not between doctor and patient, then between friends.”

“Thank you.” He rolls to his feet, an ungainly maneuver considering his previous position, which involves first swinging one leg over the entire chaise and then hoping to get his center of balance right before he can simply tumble off it. Still, he manages, and then comes around to offer a handshake. “You've given me much to think about. And, I appreciate your… discretion.”

“I hope to have the chance to meet this sweetheart of yours one of these days.”

“Regrettably not tonight. She… wasn’t free. But, I will join the rest of you. And George is, I think, similarly unattached for the night, so I won’t be the only odd man out.”

“Yes, well.” She smiles warmly, walking with him towards the door-- not that he thinks it would be possible to get lost in this house and take a wrong turn. “Dinner sometime, perhaps. William and I often enjoy couples’ evenings, you’d be more than welcome any time everyone’s schedules allow.”

“You’re too kind. Er, I’m not sure they will, or-- But perhaps if I can put your excellent advice into practice, I can be… fit for further… social…” He blows out a sigh, one hand groping through the air for the word he seeks and failing to find it. “I’ll see you at the theatre, Doctor Ogden, good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Detective Watts.”

It’s a little early for ‘afternoon’, even. Not so early that he reaches Jack’s shop in time to catch him-- he has evidently gone out for his lunch break. But Llewellyn has been wearing the man’s scarf, and his gloves, and he can’t not return them. 

He has to loiter a while-- how much time passes, he can’t say, but it’s time profitably spent, trying to get in some practice where it comes to thinking logically about things with Jack. If Jack wants to make him happy, who is he to refuse? True, he cannot yet promise that he won’t have moments of panic, but… but he had panicked and come back, he could come back again. He is of the opinion that Jack deserves better, but if Jack disagrees, who is he to argue with letting the man have what he truly wants?

“Detective Watts?” It’s Aldous Germaine’s voice to ring out to him first, though Jack is close behind, when he turns to see them heading up the street.

“Oh, thank _God_.” Jack groans, before giving Germaine an apologetic laugh. “No offense intended.”

“Oh, no, no, go on.” He rolls his eyes, waving Jack forward to meet Llewellyn. 

“I… had your scarf.” He holds it out. They are out on the street, he can’t… he can’t do as he would. He hasn’t time to steal in the back office after taking off half a day, nor can Jack simply stay closed once he’s through with his own break. His customers will have need of him and must be used to his usual schedule. “And your gloves.”

He can’t drape the scarf about Jack’s neck himself, but he watches hungrily as Jack puts it on, inhaling deeply. 

“My, my, I do wonder where you left _those_ behind.” Germaine teases, nudging Jack gently.

“Lent them, actually. So that Llewellyn could get home, without freezing.” Jack’s voice is soft-- barely above a whisper around Llewellyn’s name. 

“If I had a handsome detective in _my_ domicile, ducky, I’d be lending him a pillow, not a _scarf_.” Germaine murmurs. “Well, I’m off. Sorry not to have been more compelling company. Gentlemen.”

Jack laughs, waving him off. He holds the door open, for Llewellyn.

“I can’t stay.” He says, but he enters the shop anyway, before digging Jack’s gloves out of his pocket. “They’ll be missing me at the stationhouse. But-- the weekend next, I might-- that is, could I bring dessert, as well as wine? And let you know how the play went. And… if it’s any good, then… I’ll take you? We’d just be… two people.”

“Oh… yes. If you like it enough to see it twice. And I would like that.”

“I wanted to make the other evening up to you.”

“The other evening was lovely. It just… ended a little poorly.” Jack toys with the fingers of one glove. 

“I always seem to, but I… I’ve-- seen someone. A doctor I know. About… how to-- how to not make my problems into your problems. I mean, I said you were a lady, but…”

“But that’s how it goes, you had to.” He snorts. “You did that?”

Llewellyn nods.

“It’s all right with me, if your problems are my problems. You have made my problems into yours. But… if this helps you, then I’m happy.”

“I think it will. I want to… I want to really work on this. I want to do better by you.”

“I appreciate that. I was thinking… do you like lamb, for dinner?”

“I’ll pick a wine to go with lamb.” He nods, turning towards the door only to stop once his hand is on it, only to swivel back to face him. “Jack?”

“Yes?”

“I-- I’m not certain… a week without seeing you, when since our meeting we have been so often in each other’s company… If I met you at closing, would you… have a drink with me? Mid-week? Any night work doesn’t keep me late? Excepting, of course, your Monday evening.”

“Go somewhere, you mean?”

“I know there are things we couldn’t say. Or do. But I could buy you a drink. I could tell you about the play then. And then… when we have dinner-- we’ll have other things to say to each other.”

“I haven’t run out of things to say to you yet. Though you occasionally leave me at a temporary loss for words.” Jack smiles. “I would like that.”

Llewellyn beams, nodding once before turning to the door once more.

“Llewellyn?”

“Yes?” And once more he swings around to look at Jack, eyes wide, expectant.

“Thank you. For bringing my scarf back. It still smells like your cologne.”

He has no idea what to say to that, what to do, except to nod and gape a moment before he can make himself wave goodbye and leave the shop. There is an intimacy to that which he had never even considered, but he likes it. He likes the thought that Jack _wants_ the smell of his cologne when he isn’t there. He’s had so few occasions to wear it, but mightn’t he, to take him out? Even if it’s only for a drink, mightn’t he? And if they have to pass close by each other, close enough to notice, or if he were to come inside briefly?

So recently he’d thought it impossible he would ever get through even that small bottle of eau de cologne when he never goes to the sorts of places one wears it, and now he walks back to work picturing himself in the market for a second, in the position to say to the clerk at the counter that this is, in fact, his sweetheart’s particular favorite on him.


	8. He Will Hold Me Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the lead-up to their planned rendez-vous, Watts invites Jack for a lower-pressure meeting, in hopes of further breaking the pattern of panicking at the ends of their evenings.
> 
> Even without spending the night together, however, some mornings after are more awkward than others.

Wednesday night, he meets Jack at closing, taking him by the elbow and steering him into the nearest pub.

“How was the play?” Jack laughs, startled.

“Oh, no, a drink in front of you first-- and one in front of _me_ \-- or I’ll never get through it. The writer was a hack, the director was a _fraud_ , the theatre critic in attendance was a shill, and that’s not even touching on the unfortunate circumstances.”

“Those circumstances sound unfortunate enough-- you didn’t have to _work_? _At_ the show?”

“On the _stage_. Poor John, he knew her. Then again, he knew her killer, too. Though… not nearly to the same degree.” He frowns briefly. “Find us a table? And what will you have?”

“Surprise me.”

‘Surprise me’ is… quite a lot of freedom. He considers the options and settles on beer for them both, with a thought towards walking home and how inebriated he would like not to be. He knows his own limits, he tends not to approach said limits when out, but within each other’s company, he and Jack have never really been more than slightly… warm, with wine, a little loosened. He doesn’t need to knock back hard liquor to be able to get through the story, just to have something in his hand that he can sip at. And were he and Jack in private, a few more drinks might be a very pleasant thing, but being among people… no. One drink out, and then… if he were invited up for a second, at Jack’s, he might say yes.

He finds Jack tucked into a back corner, where they can talk. Not about anything terribly personal, but he can fill him in on his weekend, his evening at the theatre. 

“How about you?” He asks, when the story is wrapped up. “How’s your mother?”

“Well. She’s taken up painting, over the course of the week, and then abandoned it just as quickly. She laid in the… the base colors for a landscape, and then decided the talent skipped her generation. Her grandmother was a painter, and her mother… and her own whole life she never really picked up the family hobby. My great grandmother’s family had enough money to train a daughter in painting. Over the years-- well, my grandmother grew up learning from her mother, then she had to work, and it’s a thing that takes time, money. She didn’t pass it on. And my mother worked, and now she’s retired, and able to keep comfortable. I think she worries she waited too long, but.” Jack shrugs. “Sometimes you start when you start. All I can do, I suppose, is encourage her to hold onto it and see how she feels about finishing it in time.”

“Mm. Indeed. Are your paintings all done by family?”

“Mostly. If it’s a painting it was probably in the family and if it’s a photograph it was probably taken by a friend. I bought the one in the office, because I liked it, and I bought the big etching. I’ll show you which one my grandmother painted on the occasion of my birth, it’s one I have hanging at home.”

“Please do. I… I would like to hear about your family. Traditions. I’ve had to piece together things about my own… as much detective work as memory, to figure out anything about my family history. Learning about other people’s-- learning about _yours_ \-- I like it.”

“It doesn’t make you feel the lack too keenly?”

“No. No… it’s-- You would think it would be like standing at a window, looking in but trapped in the cold, but it’s not. It’s an invitation for understanding. It’s… warm. And it’s pleasant.”

“Good.” Jack glances away, hand twitching slightly where it rests on the table. “I… huh. This is harder than I thought it would be.”

“Is it?”

“Too many things I’d like to say.” He smiles. “I’ve had so many… half-worded conversations. I mean only recently I spent my entire lunch listening to the state of Aldous’ heart, the verbal gymnastics of which... I’m used to talking around things. I’m used to false names and code words. It never… bothered me, before. It was the price we all paid, to avoid paying a bigger one.”

“Should I not have asked?”

“No, I’m glad you did. It’s… nice. To be out somewhere. It’s just… I’ve never been in quite this position.”

“No. Nor I.” Llewellyn ducks his head. He’d thought perhaps it would be easier-- that if they met publicly, they’d _have_ to behave a certain way, they’d have to slow down, and then he could think things out more carefully, stop himself having to run, he could appreciate Jack’s company without getting too into his own head and spoiling things just as they began… 

“I’ve always… if anything, been over-cautious. Quiet. Content… not because the state of things suited me, but because dreaming of more frightened me. I am not a man entirely without ambition, I think. I know what it is to go after a dream, even if it’s a risk. But… career ambitions, however risky embarking on a thing might be, it’s… It’s _normal_ for a man to dream of being self-employed. My other dreams?” He shakes his head. “It was easier not to dream too hard.”

“Ah, yes. I… know what it is, to… to bury a thing. Focus on career. Maybe too much-- or, no. I don’t think I focus too much on my career, so much as… I’ve never had a balance. I like my work. I have hobbies. But… certain things just never bore dreaming about.”

“Even among Owen’s friends… if I had let myself dream, or… when I let myself dream, after a few drinks in the right company… I was an odd duck. I’m sorry-- I feel like… I don’t know.”

Llewellyn dares a touch to his arm then. People do touch each other, after all, people drinking together touch each other all the time. They lean into each other and throw arms around shoulders and slap each other on the back and grab at each other for emphasis while telling jokes, stories… it’s not so strange, if he touches Jack, if it’s only a moment, if he’s holding a glass. He could almost rationalize his heart into beating normally.

“Don’t be. I’m probably about as odd as ducks come, if that’s-- I mean… for what it’s worth?”

“I could tell you why that is.” Jack’s gaze dips down, makes a lingering sweep of his face. “If you’ll see me home.”

He’s not sure he follows, exactly, or at least not for a moment. Mentally backing the conversation up, he assumes that there are dreams Jack would explain to him in private.

“I could… yes. For a minute.”

“For a minute.” Jack promises. 

They walk a ways in silence, until the streets grown empty and quiet around them, and Jack steps close enough that their elbows brush.

“I do want to apologize, if-- I bring Owen up too much.” He says, and it’s not a hesitation, but a change in direction-- a veering away from the question of whether or not he might, into the certainty that he does, though after their early talks about the case and about the nature of grief, Llewellyn doesn’t think he speaks so much about him. Not enough to necessitate an apology, certainly.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“The last thing I want to do is talk about an old lover. It’s just… he was a friend, too. And he introduced me to people. And even though we preferred different circles, I still would not have found mine, if it wasn’t for his, and the way people know people. And when we met, it was one thing. And now sometimes I realize I’ve mentioned him and I don’t want you to feel like there’s a comparison. I don’t-- I don’t compare you. Or… if I do, it’s favorable, on your side. On the whole.”

“Mm.” He lets his elbow knock back into Jack’s, a little more firmly, if only briefly. “I’m not jealous. It would hardly be logical, and it would hardly be kind. Someone who was a piece of your life, you lost in a terrible way. It doesn’t matter to me if that person was your lover, it matters to me that you talk to me, about your life, about your feelings. You don’t hide pieces of yourself from me. You don’t have to tell me every little thing-- there are things I wouldn’t like hearing, I’m sure. If they were important to you to share, I would still hear them. But… I like that you don’t-- There are all these arbitrary rules for how people talk to each other, and I-- I don’t need you to do that with me. I wouldn’t appreciate it if you did. I… feel bad, about the circumstances under which I learned as much as I know, about your romantic history. But I don’t feel bad because you have one. I feel bad because you didn’t choose to share it with me, it was… laid out. And I was there. And there was nothing I could do… The night I decided to go and see you, I couldn’t erase it from my memory. I-- I’ve been on both sides of that table, Jack. I know exactly how awful it is.”

“You have?”

“Mm. I-- I thought I was protecting someone… it turned out I was just… getting in the way of the investigation. But I suppose I paid enough of a price for it. Considering it could have been my career, I got off lightly.”

“I can see where your sympathy for Glen comes from.”

“We have enough in common.”

“Who were you protecting?”

“My brother. He… I thought perhaps, in a case of self-defense-- I thought if he had, the trial would not be fair. Some would think it just as kind to… His whole life, people have treated him as if he was less than-- as if he didn’t feel, as if he couldn’t understand… He never would have had a fair trial. But I could have-- if it even made it to trial. I thought it just as likely it would be considered a terrible accident best moved on from. The-- the scar you saw… it was self-inflicted. I invented a struggle. I did all that, and then I found out… it didn’t matter. It was too late.”

Jack’s arm twines with his own, squeezing tight. 

“So.” Llewellyn sniffs, when he says nothing. “You’re not the only one to lie to the police, when it’s warranted. When it’s for something important.”

“You must have been quite the protector, growing up.”

“Mm. Frequently ineffectual.”

“But determined?” Jack’s other hand comes to stroke over his, once. Just the sweep of a warm, callused thumb across the backs of his fingers, before he pulls away again to allow a respectable distance. 

“Yes. I think I could call myself that.”

“Maybe it’s better to have a determined protector, than an effective one, sometimes.”

“How do you figure?”

“Because I’ve had my fair share of hassling, from schoolyard bullies and such growing up, from the odd belligerent drunk on an evening out now, from enemies of friends… and it’s all very well to have someone come to your rescue once, but that doesn’t change things. And then when retaliation comes around, you’re alone and it’s worse than ever. But if someone is there with you, day in and day out, they may not make a difference on your bully. They make a difference to you. You know there’s someone who wouldn’t watch you suffer alone, despite the consequences.”

“A fair point.”

“The only kind I make.” Jack smiles, and laughs when Llewellyn elbows him. “Thank you.”

“Thank you?”

“For telling me about what happened. For not minding me, when I do talk about Owen. For the drink. Take your pick. For being… very unlike everyone else.”

“No one’s said that like it was a good thing before.”

“Well… what do they know?”

The smile that starts across his face at that threatens to overtake him entirely. He takes the stairs of Jack’s building with a spring in his step. And then, and then… inside, Jack holds him, body close to his and keeping him up against the door, hands cupping his cheeks, but the kisses he gives are light and undemanding, playful. There is no question in them that he can’t be ready to answer in full.

“Men like us invented love.” He whispers, and he slides an arm around Llewellyn’s shoulders, and he slides his lips past Llewellyn’s mouth, along his jaw up towards his ear. “Real love. And then we forgot it, living in this world, but when you look at me, I remember. I remember I wasn’t always cynical about love.”

“Was that what made you an odd duck, with that crowd? Relative, ah, levels of cynicism?”

“I think… you and I were never meant to be ducks in the first place.” He laughs softly. “That’s what makes us so odd. There is no circle where we wholly belong… there’s no group of men like us that’s just… men like us. I don’t mean that I’m not happy with the friends I have, I am, but I mean… no matter what groups we found I think we would find a hundred little ways to feel different. It’s not a bad thing, necessarily… it’s just… so.”

“I’ve never entirely fit in anywhere.” He nods. “Always some part of me that doesn’t… that sticks out wrong. I think I know what you mean-- it doesn’t mean there aren’t places that feel more like home than others, or people who will accept you. It just means… You’re just aware of it. I… I’m used to not having a home. And I think… I’m afraid to have one just because I’ve grown accustomed to being unmoored in the vast seas of life. Even though I want one, letting myself have one is… difficult. But you… You.”

He shrugs, unable to put voice to the rest, and sees the softening look in Jack’s eye-- soft as he’d already been for him.

“Do you have time for a bite to eat before you go?”

He thinks about what he’d been told, when he’d gone to Doctor Ogden. He thinks about the way Jack watches him and the ways you try to show your love when you’ve learned not to show it. He thinks about her advice.

“A small bite. Ah-- is there anything I should do to help?”

“I don’t know, can you cook?” Jack asks, and judging by the smile he fights in vain, the expressions that travel over Llewellyn’s face say enough. Jack leans up and kisses the end of his nose. “Then please don’t, beloved. I like doing it. But I wouldn’t mind a hand with setting the table, if you’re offering.”

_Beloved_. The last time Jack had called him that, the only other time, he had been fighting the cycle of fear and distress and shame which had him running away, running back, but never able to stay and to settle, nights. He had been upset, and Jack had been trying to tell him he was loved. But this time… he’d just _said_ it, light and easy as you like.

Llewellyn sets the table in a sort of stunned silence. _Beloved_. Finds the bottle of wine he’d brought the last time, not yet empty, and pours out the last of it into two glasses. _Beloved_. Jack is chopping up vegetables, quick and efficient, and then adding meat, already cubed from his icebox, is standing over a pan, and the scent in the air has so quickly turned homey around him and Llewellyn is his _beloved_.

“So… you enjoy cooking?” He says at last, which is as close to what he wants to say as he thinks he can put into words. 

Jack nods, serving them both. “I started helping in the kitchen when I was young. My grandmother taught me how to butcher a chicken and then she taught me how to cook one. And I was good at it, and it was… it was something I could do to help, when her hands were bad and she couldn’t use a knife anymore, without it hurting. When my parents were tired from work and an extra pair of hands was welcome. I’d have rather done that than any other chores they might have set me. It was a big kitchen, sometimes we’d all be in there together working. Used to have to stand on a stool to work, but… I always liked it. Food is important. And…” He shrugs.

“It’s what connects people, yes. I mean we don’t just eat for subsistence, food is social, food is ritual, it’s… life.”

“Exactly, thank you.” Jack looks relieved, almost, and pleased. “You have quite the philosophical view of the importance of food, for a man who has confessed to me that he’s made entire meals out of peanut butter.”

“Well…” He takes a deep breath. “Maybe I just… needed someone to take care of me.”

Jack beams at him, lifting his wine glass in a toast. “And maybe so did I.”

“I… I haven’t done much to take care of you.”

Jack look at him as if he’s just said something insane. Not ‘I think I’ll go to the moon today’ insane, or ‘I believe I’m Julius Caesar’ insane, not flamboyantly insane, only a very sad kind of insane.

“Do you really think that?”

“Yes, yes, I know, I sprung you the one time, but--”

“Risked your career, your reputation--”

“One time, and I knew you were _innocent_ , and I knew I could solve the case if I could get information from you about the stamps.”

“And you talked to me, about the nature of grief, when mine was fresh. And you… waited, on the street, with food you had bought in hopes that I would pass you, so that you could give it to me. And you fret about putting _me_ at risk when you have everything to lose. And did you think I wouldn’t notice that every night that you escort me home, eight blocks out of your way, you walk on the street side? Did you think I don’t see you?”

“Is all that enough?”

Jack’s laugh is small, strangled, hysterically heartbroken. “ _Yes_. You’re enough for me, Llew. You sat beside me, and you trusted me, and you walk eight blocks in the middle of the night like it’s nothing, and you think you’re not enough… you’re everything.”

“I-- oh.”

“Now eat. Your supper’s getting cold and so are the nights. If I’m sending you to walk another eight blocks, it should be with something sticking to your ribs.”

Llewellyn doesn’t need to be told twice. Dinner is good, and it’s filling, and Jack leans over with his own napkin, to dab at his lips midway through, instead of pointing it out to him. Jack rests a hand on Llewellyn’s knee under the table, and smiles at him with an immeasurable warmth, all while eating as if there was nothing at all amiss. 

He lends his scarf again, wraps it around Llewellyn at the door-- uses it to keep him from leaving too quickly, though he doesn’t ask him to stay this time. They have plans in the offing, after all. 

“Stay warm.”

“And you. I mean, you will, but-- Sweet dreams?”

“And you.” Jack smiles at him, one of those rare smiles to be utterly unconstrained, to take over his whole face.

Llewellyn kisses him, slides a hand around the back of his head and kisses his cheeks, his jaw-- the barest hint of roughness at the end of the day, he wonders what it would feel like to kiss him first thing in the morning, before he can shave--kisses his way up to one temple and simply directs Jack to _be_ kissed, and Jack allows it, laughs softly and lets him, before he releases the ends of his scarf.

“Goodnight, Llew.” He whispers, before their lips meet and he kisses him back. “I’ll see you.”

“Mm, guess I’d better go before you distract me again.”

“Am I liable to?” Jack smirks, folding his arms-- laughing when that’s enough for Llewellyn’s gaze to lock onto. 

“Mister Walker, _please_.”

“Is there a problem, Detective?”

“Yes, I’m afraid if you keep flirting with me, I’m going to have to take drastic action.”

“I would like to see that.” He quirks an eyebrow, laughs again when Llewellyn seizes his hand and kisses his way up his arm until he hits his sleeve and can kiss no further. He settles for working his way back towards his captured hand instead, pressing one final, fervent kiss to the one pale freckle at the back of his ring finger. 

“I’ve got to go.”

“You don’t make a very good argument for not flirting with you, you know.” Jack says, blushing faintly as he holds his freshly-kissed arm close to himself, his hand tucked beneath his chin. 

“Good.”

“Goodnight, Detective.”

“Goodnight, Mister Walker. I’ll see you in my dreams.”

Jack just smiles at him and lets him go, brimming with warmth, pressing the last spot Llewellyn had kissed to his own lips as he watches him go. He keeps looking back over his shoulder to him as he heads for the stairs, as Jack lingers in the door, until he has to go. 

When he has the opportunity, the next day, he runs the scarf over to Jack’s shop. When the bell over the door tinkles, Jack meets his eye, lighting up a little, though he tamps down on his excitement, nodding his head towards the other end of the shop. Two women carrying baskets of shopping, talking together over behind various hanging smoked meats, semi-obscured but still very much present.

“Mister Walker, I believe I have your missing scarf?” He says, perhaps a little loudly.

“Oh, yes, thank you-- I must have left it… at the pub, the other night.” Jack nods. “It felt unseasonably warm as I was heading out, I didn’t realize until late.”

“Well. Lucky I knew where to find you. I mean-- lucky I had been in the neighborhood, the other night, and I thought it… looked like yours.”

“Yes, lucky me. Do you think you could-- there’s a hook just there, if you don’t mind hanging that up for me?” He nods down to where his hands are currently occupied, setting up a grinder to make sausage. “Missus Harvey is waiting on me for a special order.”

“Not at all.”

And there’s so much he can’t say, and so much they can’t do, and he wonders how long the scent of his cologne will linger, and he wonders when Jack will have opportunity to check, unwatched, and he is lost for just a moment in the memory of watching him the last time, and then…

And then he is _transfixed_ , turning back to catch sight of Jack at work. 

Well, he always knew watching him at work would be dangerous, doing what didn’t matter. Or, he hadn’t thought it mattered. He could watch Jack do anything and be fascinated, he’s known that. 

He hadn’t imagined, once upon a time, that he would find the act of making sausage to be especially… moving. Except now it’s happening, movements smooth and clean, the way he uses his hands, the fact that he’s turned up his sleeves… he remembers kissing his way along that forearm the night before and now he is mesmerized, watching each sausage take shape only to be neatly twisted off, turned in that practiced hand. 

“--tive Watts!”

“Mm?” He blinks, turning to come face to hat once again with Margaret Brackenreid on an errand. “Oh-- Missus Brackenreid, my apologies, I was--”

“Fascinated?” 

His face heats. “That’s… one way of putting it.”

“You.” She wags a finger at him. “You men think you can run out of the house first thing in the morning and go to work without stopping to eat a proper breakfast, and then the next thing you know…”

Jack catches his eye, looks down and bites his lip against a smile Llewellyn hasn’t yet catalogued. 

“Yes, ma’am. I will… be sure to remember that.”

He will remember nothing, except for Jack’s hands, and the way they _move_ , for the rest of his life he will close his eyes and see only that.

“If you want to pick something up, Detective, I can put it on your tab.” Jack says, warm amusement lurking beneath the polite and professional veneer. “Just let me get these ladies taken care of.”

Llewellyn nods, trying to think about anything other than the things Jack could do with his hands, which would look not dissimilar to what he’d been doing, which he might do on the weekend, but he is not wholly successful. Jack takes pity on him, sending him off with roast chicken again-- or perhaps what he takes is not exactly pity, because he uses the passing of the tight-wrapped package to let his hand caress Llewellyn’s, just a little.

“Have a good day, Detective. And thank you again for stopping by with that scarf.”

“Mm. Yes, well. Any time. And… thank you.” He holds the package up. “Well! Back to work, and… I will see you around.”

The walk back to stationhouse four does not banish the memory of Jack’s hands, nor his smile. He finds a place where he can stick himself out of the way, so he can eat.


	9. Now Let Me Be The Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The CDC is advising people not touch their faces, but y'all leave me with NO CHOICE but to FULLY BURY MY FACE IN MY HANDS every time I see the nice things you have said about this fic, if I want to contain even an iota of the shrieking GLEE that seizes me.
> 
> Anyway, they have sex in this chapter.

He is going to stay. He is going to let Jack tell him it is safe, that he is wanted, that he can stay. And… he is going to have Jack’s hands on him. After these weeks of growing closer, discovering the depth of his feelings, hearing Jack so open and so willing to love him, too, these weeks of _wanting_ , he will, he will. And… his hands on Jack. To touch and kiss things as yet barely dreamt of, and some things very much dreamt of. 

Literally dreamt of, though it had faded too fast. He’d found himself suddenly awake, facedown in his pillow, his bedsheets damp with sweat and twisted around him, his cock aching, Jack’s name on his lips even if he couldn’t summon back up his vision of what they were doing. 

He’d felt strange, the rest of that day. He hadn’t even done anything, really, and yet he’d felt as though the world would know somehow. That someone could look at him and see the contents of his dreams, the way Jack occupied his thoughts. That Jack might look at him, and know that he had touched himself, that he had barely needed to touch himself, that when he had finished, he had been looking at his photograph.

He’d felt as if the world would know everything somehow. That even though he wore a suit he often wears, they would know he was wearing it for someone, that he was wearing his cologne so that a man might enjoy smelling him, that he had risen that day with a man on his mind, that he was aching already to see him, to please him in a hundred little ways, new ways also. And yet, throughout the day, no one treats him any differently from usual. 

He picks up a young bordeaux on his lunch break. He drops by a bakery on his way to see Jack, where indecision grips him. He eventually settles on a cream cake that looks sized for two, topped with a glossy chocolate ganache. On a whim, he stops into the florist as well, the girl working there sees him enter with a bottle of wine under his arm and a box from the bakery in hand and shows him several bouquets. An overwhelming selection of bouquets, he thinks, and the idea of instructing her to craft something similar to his specifications-- as she does offer to do-- is even more overwhelming and doubtless expensive. He likes the idea of showing up with _something_ , when he remembers the single rosebud he’d worn and then left with Jack, he likes the idea of something that will last a couple of days after he goes, of seeing Jack’s face go soft while smelling… something.

He sniffs a few things, looks at a few others, trying to think about what Jack might _like_ \-- certainly, he enjoys scents to some degree, had liked being able to smell Llewellyn’s cologne lingering on a returned scarf, but beyond that…

He settles on gardenias, not in particularly large number. There’s something that feels right, there. A cleanness and a loveliness and a gentleness, which he can imagine in Jack’s room rather easily. He lets the girl there flatter him into another boutonniere while he’s at it, is an easy mark for it when she suggests his sweetheart might find him very handsome, with a little smartening up. She sells him on a large pink carnation which he second-guesses immediately upon leaving the florist. He keeps second-guessing the whole way to Jack’s building.

The real problem is in getting up to Jack’s door unseen, burdened as he is. He doesn’t want to be seen lurking in the hall, he certainly can’t be seen going into Jack’s place outfitted thus. He winds up spending some time hiding in the stairwell, turning to face the wall whenever anyone passes, listening for the corridor above to quiet before pushing on.

He carefully rearranges everything he’s holding, so that he can knock. The anticipation and the nerves are almost too much, though Jack doesn’t take hardly any time at all to reach the door.

“Oh--” Jack answers the door in an apron and his shirtsleeves, takes in the flowers with surprise, with a total softening of his already warm expression, stepping back to usher Llewellyn inside and away from any prying eyes. “Flowers, for me?”

“I didn’t know, if… if men did this sort of thing, for each other. But I thought-- I thought it would be nice, if I could bring you something. If… it could be-- just something nice.”

“I’ll get some water for them.” He nods, reaching up to let his fingertips slide along Llewellyn’s jaw, directing him to lean in for a kiss hello. “I like flowers. I don’t… have them often. But if you ever want to bring them, then… it _is_ nice. _You’re_ nice.”

It only takes Jack a little hunting around to find a vase-- plain green glass, small… it seems to suit the space, even if it gets little use. He gets the flowers seen to, lingers over them a little, tracing a finger over petals, taking in the scent of them. And now their table has a centerpiece, and with one less thing to juggle in his arms, Llewellyn can find a safe spot to set their dessert, and then he can open up the wine.

“And what else did you bring me?” Jack purrs, coming up behind him, hands at his waist, chin on his shoulder. 

“Ah-- well. You’d said lamb, and I wasn’t sure how you planned to prepare it, but I thought I’d take a chance on this bordeaux. It should be friendly with the lamb, and just fruity enough.”

“Sounds good.” His arms slide around Llewellyn’s waist just for a too-brief moment, his body pressed close, dizzying, and then gone again. “And what’s this?”

Llewellyn turns, to see Jack carefully opening the bakery box for a peek-- the cake is not quite so pretty as it had been before being jostled for several blocks, but it has at least remained structurally sound, and Jack makes a pleased sound, before swiping a fingerful of the pastry cream which has gone a bit messy against the inside of the box.

“Hey-- now that _is_ for later.”

Jack just gives him a look he _really_ has no idea what to do with-- though he suspects it will feature heavily in any future dreams-- as he pops his finger into his mouth and sucks it clean.

“Well, you’ll have to forgive me, if I can’t always resist a little taste of what’s to come.” He says, and this time when he drags his finger back through the smear of pastry cream, he holds it out to Llewellyn, the offer unmistakable. “You didn’t feel even a little bit tempted, the whole way over here?”

He has been tempted since… well, long enough. And he may be unversed, but he’s not _entirely_ clueless. There are things he doesn’t understand entirely, not yet, but he knows what he’s doing when he accepts, when he leans forward, when he tilts his head to be able to look _up_ , just slightly. When he takes his time.

“Mm… mm, well there _is_ something to be said for… temptation.”

“Detective…” Jack groans, sidles closer. “ _You_ are overdressed. Let me take your hat. Your jacket?”

Now that he’s been able to set everything down, he supposes he may as well. Jack takes a lingering moment with him first, smoothing over his lapels and leaning in to bury his nose in the carnation, to be close… Llewellyn tosses his hat over towards a clear surface while Jack lingers, and then he takes the carnation and tucks it in amongst the gardenias before letting his jacket be removed.

“How are you feeling?” Jack asks him, returning to wrap his arms around him once the jacket is seen to. 

“Good. Jumpy, most of today. Well-- wanting to see you. Afraid I was obvious.”

“It feels that way, at first. Over time, you realize nobody’s looking at you. Not unless you really are obvious. And obvious looks different to us than it does to them.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean every single one of the men you’ve met, they have friends and neighbors who look at them and can’t figure out why they don’t have wives, and will never guess it’s for lack of wanting. _Yes_ , every single one of them. People don’t see it. They haven’t had to learn to look to survive.”

“To survive?”

Jack nods, cupping his cheek. “How long could you really live, without love?”

“In my experience? A pretty long time.”

He leans up, kisses the end of Llewellyn’s nose first and then his lips. “Beloved… you’re too full of love to have to go without it long. But I have you now… I don’t plan on letting you go, if I can help it.”

“All right.” Llewellyn nods helplessly. It doesn’t feel like the right answer, if an answer is what’s needed, but he doesn’t know what does. “I mean-- I love you. I don’t want to be let go of. I-- I sometimes worry… maybe I always will. Or maybe it will come and go, and I’ll get used to it as you have.”

“It always comes and goes.” Jack agrees. “My bold streak is a recent thing, Detective. I’ve spent much more time looking over my shoulder, denying myself things. Feeling lonely when I didn’t have to… though maybe sometimes lonely for a little while is better than choosing the wrong man to not be lonely with. But you and I… we want the same things, don’t we?”

“I just want you.”

“Oh… _Llew_. Could you? Just want me-- I mean… could you be happy, not… not having the chance to…” He gestures. “Because I’m being selfish with you, I know. Here I am, taking a man who’s never tasted the pleasures of love, and planning to keep him all to myself, it’s terribly unfair… and I don’t-- I don’t like sharing, but I’m used to it. If you ever feel the need to try others, then… just let me know.”

“No-- no, I don’t… I don’t want any others. You… you’re special, to me, I don’t-- It’s true I’ve never… experimented. I’ve experienced the world in other ways, I don’t have wild oats to sow. All I want is… I want one person to decide I’m worth keeping. I don’t want a thousand men to want me for one night, one week. I’m… _petrified_ , of anything happening to you, to me, to our careers, your home, but I-- I felt a connection with you. The first time I saw you. The fact that after the way I was involved in all the trouble you’ve had to go through, and you saw fit to forgive me my part in it--”

“Oh, yes, it was terribly difficult to forgive you _letting me out of jail_ , turning me loose, being the only voice championing my innocence and keeping me off the scaffold, that was a hard thing to get past.” Jack kisses his jaw. “I saw you. Maybe at first I had bigger concerns, but I saw you. I knew… you were like me.”

“When did you-- how did you know? Was it just because I sat next to you?”

“No, no… I trusted you then, but I knew… I knew when we first met, you were… uncomfortable, and you were sorry, but you saw me, too. Even if you don’t have the practice, spotting your own kind, it’s… You knew. Not because my story was thin, not because you had other evidence, just because we recognized each other. But… you choosing to sit beside me during my interrogation cemented the idea. You _flirting_ with me--”

“ _Flirting_?”

“Giving me those big, dark eyes… those are eyes a man starts falling into and he doesn’t stop.” Jack’s hands wind up at Llewellyn’s shoulders, start kneading. “Do you want to know the final nail in my coffin? The moment I knew I wanted to kiss you, even though there couldn’t possibly have been worse timing?”

Llewellyn can only really groan, as strong hands dig into reoccurring knots, and Jack chuckles warmly, keeping up the massage.

“In Owen’s house, when I showed you his old hiding spot? Oh, I’d considered you… not un-kissable, before then, the fact that you were willing to work with me said a lot for you. But that feeling, the ache to… In the cells, I could have chalked that feeling up to needing you for my own purposes, or being grateful, I wasn’t ready to think about attraction even if the spark was there. Watching you blush and look and try not to look at everything, it… It wasn’t about how we met, or the positions we were in, or whether it was a good idea or a bad one, it was just… you. A man I didn’t yet know well, who was... cute, and maybe just a little too innocent, but maybe yearning not to be. And we could have met some normal way, we could have met at a party neither of us would have wholly wanted to be at. And you could have gone all wide-eyed and red-faced and clumsy and… I don’t know. I don’t know, I thought it was sweet, it made me realize I wanted to know you, that if we had met any other way I would have wanted to know you.” His hands still. “That you didn’t have to spring me out of jail to make me like you.”

Llewellyn groans again, looping his arms around Jack’s waist, tugging him in close. 

“I said I would tell you, how I came to love you, beloved.” Jack’s voice is a whisper now, right at his ear. “Because I realized if I had met you any other way that spark would still be there. Because you believed in me enough to risk everything you had, yes… and because you have eyes that could make a man walk into hell, let alone a jail cell. Because you are so kind, and so good… you told me all your bad points once, but you show me all your good ones. Because you walk on the street side, and we’ve never so much as been splashed but you… you make me feel safe, and you make me feel brave.”

“It was just always you. I don’t… understand the things that I feel, when you look at me. Mm… no, I understand some of them. I understand some of them halfway. You’re careful, with your hands, with your work. You’re honest, with me. And I don’t feel safe, yet. But if you tell me I will in time, then I trust you. I trust _you_. And you care about the things that I care about, and you understand… and you-- I did tell you all my bad points, all that I could think of to tell you, by now you must have seen me in them, you… you’ve seen the way I am at dinner parties with people, you’ve seen the way I-- struggle, with some things. That other people don’t struggle with. You act as if everything that’s wrong with me, you like.”

“I don’t think there’s anything _wrong_ with you. I think every man has bad points. I will not be embarrassed if you drop your fork at a dinner party, if you don’t laugh when everyone else does, I will not be ashamed of you. Now, I need to let my lamb rest.”

“I don’t need to rest.” He mumbles the words into Jack’s neck.

“I need to get dinner out of the oven, and let it sit for a minute.” Jack fights a very clear tone of amusement. “ _Lamb_.”

It’s different from _beloved_ , but once it’s actually aimed his way in earnest, Llewellyn likes the way it makes him feel still… _Lamb_. Maybe there’s nothing Jack could call him that wouldn’t fill him with sweet warmth, but lamb… even if it’s teasing, it’s soft. How long had he gone never being spoken softly to, treated softly? How long had he told himself it was by his own choice, that he didn’t need it, that there was no part of him craving this feeling? The intoxicating pleasure of it?

“Don’t let me keep you, then… _sweetheart_.” He says, giving Jack a squeeze and then releasing him.

Jack keeps smiling back at him, even as he fusses with getting dinner set, as if each time he’s surprised. While he checks to see that all the parts of their dinner will come together as they should, Llewellyn takes it upon himself to finish setting the table, to pour the wine. The two chairs sit close at the corner of the table, so close that their knees will touch.

Llewellyn thinks there’s something in the fact that he doesn’t have to be all one thing, with Jack-- perhaps _lamb_ would chafe if he was only something soft and sweet, but Jack can treat him softly and still take comfort in his presence, still see him as… at least _potentially_ strong, at least _potentially_ a protector, as well as someone… cute. Cute, he’d called him! 

“Dinner smells wonderful.” He offers, when Jack finally takes his seat. 

“Good-- I want to try this wine. This is the-- no, you told me, you told me… the bordeaux?”

Llewellyn nods. “A fairly new one, but that should serve our purposes better tonight.”

“All right-- show me… show me what you’re supposed to do, when you taste.” He leans in a little, eyes bright, smile contained, familiar… only now, Llewellyn’s begun to see it out of its confinement, and he wants so badly to coax it into something fuller.

“Well, you want to get a look at the color.” He holds his own glass up, and then holds his napkin up behind it to be able to view it against a pure white backdrop. “Get your first sense for the depth of it and what you can expect. Then you get a sense of the viscosity-- before you even get your nose in it, you can get a sense of the fullness of it, even the sweetness, by the way it moves in the glass, how much it clings.”

“All right. And… how full is this one?”

“Medium. Now, go ahead, breathe it in. Really take your time. Get all the information your nose can give you, before you take your first sip.”

“My nose isn’t trained in this.” Jack chuckles. “I don’t know that I’m getting much information.”

Llewellyn shrugs and gently clinks their glasses together. “Sip away, then. Hold it on your tongue a moment, let the flavor bloom for you, swish it around and get the mouthfeel. Feel it play over you, pick up the notes that stand out.”

Jack does so-- he is as deliberate and thoughtful with this as with anything else.

“I’m afraid it just tastes like wine to me.” He says at last. “But wine I like. For what that’s worth… What do you taste?”

“This one… there’s a cherry note, that’s a little more forward. Mm. Grass… a plumminess… violet? Interesting. Interesting. A little earthiness… I’d have to spend some time with it to try and guess at more than I know. And now, shall we see how well it complements dinner?”

“Please.” Jack smiles, that increasingly familiar smile, as they each dig in. Llewellyn is learning to recognize the swell of pleasure in him, when a meal is being enjoyed. The smile is always there, whatever they happen to eat together, but there is a different intensity to it, when he has cooked, a tension in waiting for the first sound of praise, an extra bit of a glow. “Do you like it?”

Llewellyn is already moaning around his second bite. Table manners can be reserved for meals that are less pleasurable than this. The meat is just fatty enough for the wine, the sauce is subtle, artful. The little potatoes, quartered and roasted, have developed a crust of brown along one cut edge each, crispy to bite into and all softness inside. There’s a tenderness to the vegetables, but they retain some body instead of being cooked down to mush. He finds himself going back and forth between parts to try and determine a favorite, but when it comes down to the lamb itself or the potatoes, a clear favorite is very hard to pick.

“It’s perfect.” He manages to say at last, though given the intensity with which Jack looks at him and the speed at which he’s devoured half his dinner, the words are perhaps unnecessary. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_. I’m glad you like it. You know… any time you like, I could cook for two. I like the company.”

“Not sure how much company I am from the time you put food in front of me to the time I finish it.” He says, his face warm. 

“Very flattering company. I, ah… I’ll be making stew tomorrow. Just so that you know. Using up some bones and some small bits of this and that. Nothing fancy, but-- if you felt like coming back again, for something hot. You’re always welcome to.”

“Maybe. I-- if… if you don’t think I’m spending too much time…? If your neighbors won’t get suspicious.”

“If it’s too close, it’s not like it’s the last opportunity you’ll have to taste my stew, it’s a staple around here. You don’t have to come two nights in a row, not unless you feel safe. But… so you know what the menu would be.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know-- but maybe. I… would rather eat at your table.”

Jack takes his hand. “Dance with me? We should have music in a moment. And I could use a minute, before taking on that cake.”

Llewellyn nods, lets Jack draw him up and over to where they have the closest thing to space for dancing. Presently, Jack’s neighbor’s violin drifts through to them, and this time it feels easier, to modify their dance to suit the space and the pace. 

“I was advised… that if I was too much in my head, and I wanted to find a way to more readily accept your invitations-- accept that someone cares about me… I ought to… focus on, er…” He finds himself tripping over his words, though mercifully not over their feet. “Things like this.”

“Like what?”

“Dancing. Or dinner. Or… I think the important thing is that it’s something concrete, something where I can’t get lost in my head, can’t fall prey to my doubts because I’m… physically engaged with… you.”

“Ah, I see. Physically engaged…” Jack kisses his cheek. “I’ll try and keep you so.”

“Not to sound too forward.”

“You are not too forward.” He promises. Again, the music dies away, and again, they still dance. Just a little bit longer, Jack steering them back towards the table. “May I-- may I do something? I-- you can say no, it’s a silly request. It’s just been hard to dismiss, since earlier.”

“What is it?”

“I’d like to-- I’d like to feed you dessert. Just… I don’t know. You can say no, as I said, it’s sil--”

“Please.”

Jack meets his eye at that, and he has to struggle not to look away. He feels hot, dizzy. This is… this is being cared for. He does not _need_ to be fed, he is not an invalid-- though Jack may well tease him for eating like one every now and again. He can take care of himself. He just doesn’t have to.

He doesn’t have to. 

Jack wants to do this, he doesn’t have to-- neither of them has to, but Jack wants to, Llewellyn wants to let him.

They don’t bother with plates. Jack gets a single fork and brings the box with the cake over, refills one of the wine glasses. They settle well into each other’s space, and Llewellyn braces himself to feel silly, childish, foolish, but those aren’t the feelings to come to the forefront at all. Only a blossoming warmth, a growing sense of the safety he could have here. Perhaps not a safety from the world outside, they still do need exercise caution with his comings and goings, but… a safety from himself. From his loneliness, from the thought that no one could put up with caring for him. Jack gazes at him with an aching tenderness, with the usual sense of pleased satisfaction, with…

With depths he’s yet to plumb. 

Perhaps tonight.

“Is it-- do you like it?” He asks, and Llewellyn doesn’t know if he means the cake or the feeding.

“Yes.”

“It’s not… this isn’t too strange?”

“If I am any authority on strange, Jack, it’s not from the perspective of normal.”

“I said I’d wanted to do this, since earlier--”

“With the pastry cream?”

Jack nods. “But… I think… since the night you came to me, when you really did need me. Not for this, but--” He reaches up, free hand stroking through Llewellyn’s hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “You were shaking so badly… and you came to me, and it meant something to me that you would. But you managed taking care of yourself once I got food to you, so I-- it seemed a poor time to ask you to be any more helpless than you came to me as.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not that I want you to be helpless. It’s just that I want… something.”

“To take care of me.” He says slowly. “I’m… learning how to let you.”

“I like this. If you do. If it’s not…”

“No, I-- I think I do.” He says, but he still reaches out to take the fork from Jack’s hand. “You should get a taste for yourself, though-- or, should I? For you?”

Jack nods and leans in, opens his mouth, and it’s… nice, he supposes, to feed him as well. It’s not the same. It isn’t for Jack, either, who just smiles at him, his usual smile, and takes the fork back to feed both of them. Who brings the wine glass to Llewellyn’s lips and tilts it gently, and watches him drink, and looks…

“Will you come and sit with me, where it’s a little more comfortable?” Jack asks, when the wine is gone and the cake well enough consumed to leave off. His voice is low, _husky_ , even. “Where I could… engage you, a little more?”

“I would like that.” Llewellyn nods. He feels as if he’s floating, when Jack leads him by the hand to sit, very near each other. Is this desire? It’s not the lack of it-- but it’s so different from before. He has found Jack arousing, he has found Jack arresting. He has never felt so truly and completely under his spell.

“Thank you. For… indulging me.” Jack lifts Llewellyn’s hand to his lips, brushes the softest kiss over his knuckles. 

“I ought to… I should… Jack, I--”

“Please… don’t go before I can tell you--”

“Go? Oh-- no.” He shakes his head. Leaving had been the very last thing on his mind, though now that the question has been raised, he has a difficult time banishing his anxieties again. “No, I don’t want to, I just… Talk me out of it, talk me out of it, I’m--”

“Llew… lamb. You want to stay?”

“ _Desperately_ , I just… I need to learn not to panic, I think about everything that could go wrong, I think about losing you, and I, but you could… you could convince me, you just need to…” He can’t make himself say it. He casts Jack a desperate look, willing him to understand what it is he needs, to breathe again. What it is he wants. As much as he has appreciated the gentle understanding Jack has always had for him, he needs a change.

“It’s all right.” Jack strokes his hand. “I know it’s frightening, I know there are consequences, I know you worry about coming too many nights or being caught, but Llew, _beloved_ , I’m right here.” 

“Maybe I shouldn’t stay after all…” He says, uncertain. They’re sitting so close, knees touching, hands touching, and it’s difficult to think straight, but he thinks he owes him some caution, he shouldn’t let his desire outweigh that, should he? He has to keep them safe and Jack could lose everything having him here and his heart won’t slow. “I don’t know what your landlord is like, but… at the least, if he sees a man leaving by your fire escape in the morning, I could lose you your home.”

“So don’t leave by my fire escape.” Jack takes hold of his waistcoat, tugging him forward, and the look in his eye is unmistakable.

And suddenly, that rapid-paced worry is gone. He is… _engaged_. The promise of sensual pleasure overcomes the fear, banishes it in an instant. He feels… well, desperately wanting, yes, and safe, and _playful_. As he had been the last time he left, when they had lingered by the door and teased, when he had been confident with him.

“And don’t think just because I let you out of jail once, that you can bat your eyes at me and get your way.” He holds up a warning finger, but Jack is biting his lip, is devouring him with his gaze, and he’s not sure he could remain firm on the point for long if he wanted to.

“Can’t I?”

“... Mm. Maybe you can.”

So, not long at all.

He lets himself be tugged. He takes hold of Jack, his arm, his waist, and suddenly rather than being in two very close chairs, they’re both in his, Jack warm in his lap, Jack’s fingers playing through his hair, and up until very recently, kissing had been new enough territory which he’d found his footing in, but now…

Jack is still gentle with him. For every time their lips meet, there’s a softer, chaster kiss to his cheek, to his chin, along the line of his jaw. There’s something teasing in the feel of his breath, and when it gusts past his ear, Llewellyn feels any caution he might yet have held leave him. Here, he can bury his nose in the open collar of Jack’s shirt and breathe in the scent of his own eau de cologne-- citrus, bergamot, lavender… something floral, among the more herbaceous notes. Gardenia? A lucky coincidence if so. And something else. And something earthy, lurking beneath all of it, something decidedly masculine, heady. Not woodsy, like Blenheim Bouquet, but some of the notes, the citrus and the lavender and the bergamot, are the same. Not a cologne he knows. Although, presumably, if he’s to stay the night, he would have occasion to discover what it is, discover how much is left in the bottle, and then… well. Try and find out when it would be an appropriate gift, to buy him a bottle of the same. Surely that’s not too intimate for someone whose bed you’ve been in? And he is shortly for Jack’s bed, a lover this time, and he is on fire, and every last part of him is _alive_.

“You smell good.” He groans, and Jack kisses him again, deeper. A tongue slides against his lip, revelatory.

“So do you. Touch me…”

“I-- aren’t I?”

“ _More_.” He places a hand over the one resting careful at his waist, directs him to move, to _feel_. “I want you…”

“I’m yours, have me.”

The sound that comes out of Jack at that is something else entirely, and there is another deep kiss, Jack’s tongue slick against his own. He feels like he could hit the ceiling when it teases his palate, just a quick flicker of contact, electric.

“You don’t know what you’re saying…” Jack says, words smearing across his jaw. “You have no idea, the things I-- _Yet_. I’ll show you. We’ll go slow.”

“This is slow?”

He laughs, and kisses him-- softly, this time. “ _Beloved_ … come to bed.”

“I’ve had dreams about the things you could do with your hands.” He blurts out, as Jack leaves his lap and tugs him to his feet. 

“Then I’ll do them.”

“Show me. Show me how to, for you, whatever you like the most.”

“In time.” Jack strokes his hair again. “I’ll teach you everything I know. You can try it all. Anything that sounds good to you. I am going to be so, so good to you.”

He lets himself be guided to Jack’s bed, stripped, both their clothes flying. His hand moves to Jack’s bare chest, awe taking him at being allowed this intimate touch, fingertips skimming over pale skin.

“We’ll summer somewhere.” Jack promises him, steals a kiss. “I haven’t forgotten. Even for a weekend away. No one around us for miles, the sun on your skin.”

“The sun on _your_ skin, that’s what I’m interested in.”

Jack laughs and tugs at his hips, bringing them flush against each other, the press of Jack’s arousal obvious against his own, before they finish shedding their clothing. “Then you shall have it. As much of my skin as you could want.”

His body is beautiful. Trim, but muscular, fit from his work, no harsh lines anywhere on him. Just smooth and lithe and solid, each part of him flowing into the rest just as toned forearm becomes sturdy wrist becomes elegant, masculine hand. All of him is like that. And those hands are all over Llewellyn in return, everywhere, his gaze is…

“You’re beautiful.” Jack breathes. 

“Me?”

“You. And your hands are so _big_ , and your _thighs_ …”

“Oh-- er… I mean, I run.”

Jack kisses his lips, his throat. Jack’s hand wraps around him, firm and steady, strong and practiced, the slide and twist of it even sweeter than dreamed. His knees threaten to give out at it, but it’s only a couple of good strokes, before Jack is pushing him carefully down to the bed, and moving to straddle his thighs.

“ _Oh_ …”

“Good ‘oh’?”

“I think I like looking up at you.” He says, dazed, and Jack kisses him again.

“Good, because it suits me to be on top of you.” Jack grins, rolls their hips together and guides Llewellyn’s hands to grab onto him. “You feel incredible… you look beautiful… I’ve wanted-- I’ve wanted you.”

“So have I, you.” He cups the back of Jack’s head, fingers stroking through no-longer-neat hair. He also cups his ass, which is… another revelation. Firm, soft, squeezable, and it gives him leverage to change the pace Jack keeps, if he wanted to. He’s content to let Jack handle that for now, but it’s a heady thing to know, that he _could_.

“I want to suck you off.” Jack says, hot against his throat. “Your gorgeous cock down my throat, can’t think of the last time I wanted so badly… I want to throw those beautiful legs up over my shoulders and show you things you’ve never even dreamed…”

Those words are enough-- along with the delicious friction, the sparks up his spine, the hands on his body. Which means Jack does not get the opportunity, just yet, and he’s not sure if this is normal or not or how he should react or whether he should apologize. He thinks he should apologize.

“Jack-- oh, I-- I am sorry. That--”

“Shh, _lamb_.” The gentlest kiss stops him. Jack pushes himself up to kneel straddling his thighs, giving him a little room to breathe-- and quite the view. “That’s all right.”

“Is it?”

“Call it taking the edge off, if you decide you’d like to try again later, but… it’s your first time, Llew. It happens. How do you feel?”

“Good. Strange. Not sure. You--”

“Can you use your hand on me? Or… allow me to-- while I look at you?”

He’s struck dumb by the very thought. That Jack could find satisfaction-- _satisfaction_ , rather than mere relief-- just being here and looking at him in the sweaty and undignified state he’s in, with his own hand… But he doesn’t need his own hand, Llewellyn may be clumsy at many things, he thinks he can manage this one. He handles Jack the way Jack had handled him before, uncertainty giving way to comfort as he finds a rhythm, as he watches the pleasure on Jack’s face. 

He’s a mess by the end, Jack’s release striping his stomach along with his own. He thinks perhaps he likes that-- or, he would, if it were not getting slightly uncomfortable. But Jack begs him a minute of patience, and so he waits, and Jack soon has a damp cloth to clean him up with, is tender in the cleaning.

“How about now?” Jack neatens his hair, as best one might under the circumstances. “Feeling all right?”

“Odd. Very odd. Not bad.”

“That’s good.” He kisses Llewellyn’s cheek. “My first time, I was sick in his wastebasket after. It was… a great deal to take in. I wasn’t slow. Useless to wish I had been, I’m glad I’ve learned the things I have. I’m glad to have things I can share with you now, and… and be good at them for you. And… I’m glad if I can make your first time sweeter, or easier to bear up after, when the rush of feeling wears off and the worries come back.”

“I’m… no different than the man I was before. I feel different. I feel exposed.”

Jack moves to straddle him again, this time so that he can massage his shoulders from the front. “You are not exposed-- not to anyone but me. No one can look at you and know where you were tonight. You will be _safe_. I promise. Now… relax. Far too late and too cold to go out, so let me help you sleep. And… if you come for dinner tomorrow and you can’t stay, I won’t ask it of you just because you’ve stayed once. It’s a thing you’ll weigh each time. But… we can do this. Whenever you want to… whether or not you stay after.”

Llewellyn falls asleep under Jack’s steady hands.

When he wakes, he is curled around him, cheek stuck to chest, and the light through the window is stronger than it should be.


	10. Every Minute, Every Hour, Every Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from s13e09, so... that's where we are.

“Mm, go back to sleep.” Jack hums, hand trailing sleepily over his back.

“No, I’ve got to get up, I need to get up right now-- Jack! It’s late!” Llewellyn hisses, struggling to extract himself from a very cozy but treacherous nest of tangled bedding and clinging lover.

“Bath’s through that door, then.” He sighs, hand shifting to help struggle with the covers instead of keeping Llewellyn trapped in place.

“That… would be useful, actually. Jack, I’m _late_.”

When he finally manages to extract himself from Jack’s bed, Jack gives his rear a gentle smack to send him on his way. Which is… nice? It’s not anything that really stings. He thinks it’s nice, possibly, but he also thinks it needs some thought, if he wants to understand what it is he might like about the gesture. Certainly there is an intimacy to it, but it is difficult to say why he should find it affecting.

“All right, all right, I’m up.” Jack groans. “I’ll make breakfast.”

“No time. Help me find my clothes? I’ll… try and make myself…” Clean, presentable? He blows out a sigh, not sure he’ll hit the mark for either. Cleaner than he is now, at least. His socks are accounted for, he thinks he sees his shirt, he knows where his jacket is, and his hat. His trousers can’t be _that_ hard to spot, but he still needs the rest of his underthings, and his tie and waistcoat…

He trusts the finding of things to Jack, has to if he wants to wash away any of the sweat of last night, if he wants to do anything about his hair. At least it is not in his usual habit to be clean-shaven, that doesn’t stand out as a thing to be fixed, when he eyes himself in Jack’s mirror.

“I suppose this means no time for a quick romp?” Jack calls through the door, as he rummages around for lost clothing for him. “Pity! I was looking forward to getting my mouth on you!”

“People are getting up, people are starting their _days_ \--” Llewellyn argues-- though he doesn’t let the arguing nor his own frantic freshening-up pace stop him checking on Jack’s eau de cologne situation.

“Their days _off_ , you have time. No one’s going to catch you. Are you _sure_ you won’t have breakfast? Let me make you a sausage at least. Take it with you if you have to.”

“I don’t have time, I need to go.” He bursts out of the bath, as clean as he expects he’ll get, accepting the armload of clothes from Jack with a grateful, if strained, smile.

Jack pulls on a few things and then heads for the kitchen anyway, though the place is small and open enough that it doesn’t make much difference, he could turn his head and watch Llewellyn dress. He’s still doing up his own buttons even as he reaches the icebox.

“I’m making you a sandwich, you’re not leaving without it.”

“I can’t keep coming back if I get caught, I was supposed to wake up before dawn, I was supposed to be out-- if your landlord catches me? I’ve come to your door often enough, Jack, but it’s one thing if I come in and then leave before the front door’s locked at night, and I’ve even missed that often enough, slipping out. This is-- Where would you _go_?”

“My mother’s house, I suppose.”

“Well we can’t do what we did last night in your mother’s house, and what if there was a formal _complaint_ , what if it’s not just losing the room?”

“Then I hope they send you to arrest me. Llew, no one’s going to catch you, it’s a weekend.”

He finishes dressing without responding to that. The very idea of being put in the position of having to arrest him now… All very well for Jack not to take it seriously, but there are so many ways for it to go wrong, and how is he supposed to stop worrying? He saved Jack once, from having his name attached to a scandal, but could he do it again? How many times could he protect Jack before someone at the stationhouse asked how long he would put his neck out for a man who helped him solve one case, once? And that’s if he’s not recognized himself, once he loses his job he can’t offer Jack any protection, he can’t offer him anything…

Jack stops him on his way out, with a firm hand on his shoulder and a gently reproachful look, and he suddenly feels very little-boy-called-to-the-carpet. Not in a bad way, exactly, but he doesn’t know how else to put it. He feels sheepish, a little, and he doesn’t think he was in the wrong-- there was no heat to their bickering, and he’s not wrong to worry about Jack’s safety-- but he wishes he knew how to apologize just the same. How to say he is trying but he needs this, he needs some control and some safety or he can trade in all his pleasant dreams about Jack’s smiles and heated looks and clever hands for not so pleasant dreams about his homelessness and arrest and injury.

“For your lunch.” Jack hands him a sandwich, carefully and perfectly wrapped. Gives him a look to remind him he’d said he wasn’t to leave without _something_. Care, which he does not yet know what to do with, but which he is learning to like. He’s learning to like it, the way Jack loves him. The warmth and the fondness and the disappointment and the gentlest sort of desire coming together to say ‘I thought you were going to let me take care of you’. And… well, and he’d made him food. “I hope you come back again.”

He thinks about the promise of a hot and hearty bowl of stew waiting for him, no questions, no reservations, there if he is able to accept it, there because this man wants to make him happy and keep him well.

He thinks about how careless he’d been sleeping in so late, how he hadn’t realized sharing a bed would be so agreeable to him, that he could feel such a false sense of security overtake him late into the morning. 

He thinks about every terrible thing that might happen, because of him.

“If anyone were to find out--”

“I know.” Jack’s voice is soft, but firm. Jack, who spoke with discomfort and disapproval of the openness with which his former lover lived and how he courted disaster, and how he could better afford to, perhaps, but how Jack would pay the price were he truly indiscreet. He reaches up to fix Llewellyn’s tie, making him look that much more presentable, or at least making him feel it. “Some things are worth the risk.”

This time, something breaks through to him. Jack _isn’t_ an un-cautious man, he _knows_ that. The recent bold streak… it’s because he has recently had to weigh the risk of taking something against the loneliness of holding it at arm’s length. It’s because the new risk he has been considering is not just taking a lover in the abstract, he has calculated that risk long ago and learned what his needs were in all directions. The new risk he has been considering is _Llewellyn_ , and he has weighed him and found him worthy, he has looked at him and he has made a choice.

The thrill it sends through him, there are no words for. If he owes an apology or a thank-you, he will have to give it later. He will consider what it is he needs to say to him… and if he can just get out without being seen by anyone, then he could say it over dinner, he could come _back_.

But he does leave Jack’s rooms with a confidence he has not so fully felt in weeks.

The spring in his step vanishes in a flash at the sight of George Crabtree, sneaking out of a room on the same corridor. Facing the other way, but unmistakeably George, he can’t… he can’t let George see him. Can he get out both quickly and quietly enough to avoid being spotted? He’s struggling to push down the panic. He might have slipped past a stranger, if they hadn’t seen which door, but he and George both need to take the same stairs, don’t they? And there’s not really a lot of room to hide.

His brief, anxious back-and-forth ends-- perhaps predictably-- in George spotting him.

“Detective Watts, small world!”

“George.” He greets, still at a loss for words, words of any real use or import.

“I didn’t know you lived in this building.” George remarks, all pleasant surprise, all his usual friendliness. It hits him, sudden and strong, how much it would grieve him to lose that friendship now, after all they’ve been through, and isn’t that the best he could hope for, if he knew?

“Oh. Uh. I don’t.” He blurts out. It’s not what he’d meant to say, though lying about his address might have easily bitten him in the end. There must have been some lie he could have told, except… except he hadn’t prepared one, and he’s not _good_ at lying. Oh, performing, yes! If he has something prepared, he can stick to a story, but an off-the-cuff lie is… different. Even if he were a man at ease with lying to a friend, there are too many variables to simply telling one unprepared.

“Oh, have a lady friend, do you?” He says-- the subject of the invented Ella Smythe had dropped off of late around the stationhouse, when he’d failed to say much of real interest about her, it might have been easy to assume he’d parted ways with his supposed lady love, but George is still quick to come to the likely conclusion. Or at least, likely were Llewellyn Watts a somewhat different kind of man. “Nothing to hide from me, Detective, we’re in the same boat.”

And Llewellyn should… he should know what to say, he should know how to say it, hasn’t he been preparing his lie for just such an occasion? But he feels lost, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, no one was supposed to find out… 

But George hasn’t found out, not yet. He doesn’t know which rooms, who with, he doesn’t _know_. And maybe a case such as George presents to him as they do make for the stairs together will provide sufficient distraction… maybe George won’t care, maybe George won’t really think about how they ran into each other.

George is detective material, that’s the problem-- he won’t simply _forget_ , he’ll file it all away. He’ll remember it later. He’s not Higgins, who has his moments but also gets scattered, self-absorbed, lets these details slip when it isn’t vital to remember. He’s sharp, he should already _be_ a detective, and he would be if ability was more important than office politics. Well… if politics wasn’t so much of the job, George would have Murdoch’s job and Murdoch would be inspector somewhere, and… and who knows what else.

He wonders if Jack would be happier to know he eventually did get a breakfast, or happier not to know that said breakfast was as many cookies as he could secrete in his pockets while he and George interviewed a victim of theft. Five in total, he thinks, he thinks he’d gotten three into his pocket and eaten two there, or roughly that.

He thinks if it had been only a few days ago, the idea of saying as much and having Jack fuss at him would have been… a lot. A lot to take. He wouldn’t have known what to do with it, he _didn’t_ know what to do with it, when Jack used to fuss over him, used to say things that implied he really could care if he could just be allowed to, it made him so nervous. The thrill and the confusion. He thinks… if he went back to him tonight, and said he’d had roughly five snickerdoodle cookies for breakfast, maybe… maybe he would enjoy being lectured just a little bit, by someone who cares. Maybe he would like to be steered into a chair at Jack’s table and told he could at least have a healthy supper, if his breakfast had been lacking. 

He doesn’t go back, not that night. With the investigation ongoing, he supposes he could excuse his presence in the building, and yet… it would draw unnecessary attention Jack’s way, to be seen at his door while investigating a theft.

And then, Jack’s name comes up during this investigation. George’s lady friend recognizes the brown paper, the stamp and the writing on it, before he can hide it away.

Jack’s not _involved_ , of course he’s not involved. One of his neighbors has to be a customer, it only stands to reason some of them would be. Even if Llewellyn could be convinced that he could be so mistaken about Jack’s character, there’s the very simple fact that he knows where Jack has _been_. He was with him the night the crime was to have taken place, he was reeling over being called _beloved_ just when the crime would have been taking place. And he _does_ know his character. 

But Jack’s the one person who might be able to tell them who _is_ involved, and like a fool, he’d had to go and remind George of who Jack Walker was-- a witness from the Paxton case, and _not_ one of the philatelists. Why hadn’t he just… not said anything? George didn’t _know_ Jack, it might not have rung a bell.

Except… suppose he had? Suppose he had recognized the name? Llewellyn can’t be sure how much George knows, after the fact, how much of the case he’d familiarized himself with as reports were drawn up and a case made against the man they’d finally caught for it, but George is sharp and he’s involved and suppose Llewellyn had said absolutely nothing, pretended Jack to be a stranger, and then George had asked _why_ he’d been so strange with a man he’d sprung from the cells to solve their case?

He’s quick to stress that they need to be formal, as subtly as he can be, when Jack opens the door to see him with George, and luckily… well, it’s part of their life, isn’t it? Being able to pretend they’re only casual acquaintances, at the drop of a hat… having to pretend that it doesn’t affect him, to be so close, to see Jack, his rolled-up shirtsleeves and his secret smiles. Here, where only two nights before, he’d… for the first time, he’d…

And he can’t apologize for it, or promise to make it up to him later, not in words. Has to pretend he doesn’t know better than to ask the establishing questions George expects him to ask, has to behave as if he’s not Jack’s very reliable alibi. He can only try… he can only hope Jack knows he will be back for him, and alone.

George… George _sees_ , though. George notices, he’s sure, that this is a room Llewellyn might have come out of that morning, that this is a… that this is a _known homosexual_ who Llewellyn had let out of his cell, whose name he had kept out of the case in exchange for his help, who Llewellyn had looked at just a little too long. Would he put these things together? He must… and what could he do, to stop him reaching the right conclusion?

Maybe he’s worrying over nothing. Maybe George wouldn’t be able to see those things… maybe George wouldn’t see the way he couldn’t stop himself looking, just for a moment, wouldn’t know what he was looking _at_ when he did. Couldn’t see those smiles, tight and hidden from a world that wouldn’t understand what they meant, wouldn’t-- Could he?

Or… could he? 

There are men he would accept wouldn’t see it. He would still feel the fear but he would think on what Jack had told him, that people simply don’t see it, see them. That things which leap out to him go unnoticed by people who aren’t searching with their whole hearts for it.

But George… it’s not just his perceptiveness as an investigator, it’s the way he comes at so many things from an unexpected direction. It’s the way that he… it’s something. George isn’t the same as he and Jack, he knows that, but there is something else, and George might well see. He seems to hold no prejudices, based on the conversation they’d once had, and yet even if he wouldn’t react with visceral disgust, even if he didn’t care himself, even if he didn’t go straight to report him… that didn’t mean he wouldn’t, if it came to that. If he felt he had to, in future, if the subject came up and he were pressed to reveal, he has no reason to protect him, a lack of disgust is no reason to risk his own career. Not when he’s already suffered setbacks beyond his control. He can’t expect him to break the law for him. No matter how good a man, no matter how good a friend, he cannot ask that.

He can ask to speak with him, though, or find him. He can give him a plausible excuse before it comes up with anyone else. He can fix this somehow, he has to, or neither of them can be safe. Not if George knows, and not if he doesn’t have another story, because if he only has another story, then Llewellyn _can_ trust him, can’t he? To give that one and not the truth? Even if he suspects, wouldn’t he? And no one would probe deeper if he didn’t say something, because no one else has any reason to think Llewellyn has done anything wrong.

And… and he _hasn’t_. 

Whatever anyone else thinks… he’s done _nothing_ wrong. Not by going to Jack, not any of the times he’s gone to Jack. And not the next time that he will go to him, and not… not ever.

He just needs something to say to George, that’s all, and then it will all be fine, and then it will all be safe, _they’ll_ be safe, it just needs to be plausible.

It’s not plausible.

He doesn’t know what he was thinking, except that he wasn’t thinking. Money troubles… if he’d had money troubles, why not go to George himself? Granted, George might just as easily not be able to put him up, but why not talk to him-- or anyone else from work-- instead of to some strange man who’d helped him on a single case, some man he supposedly didn’t know intimately? Some man whose only interest, outside of that case… well, it would be personal, wouldn’t it?

Some man who, it can’t be ignored, could only be a known homosexual. It’s baked into their meeting, it is inescapable. Jack hadn’t been one of the persons of interest George had pursued, and there were only two sorts involved in that case. Well, and Aldous Germaine, he supposes, who’d been both. But George didn’t need to know that about him.

And yet, George accepts the story. Not because he believes him, but because it’s… plausible deniability, should he need it. Because…

Because what? Because he’s George, because it was always the thing he would do? Maybe so…

That night, he returns to Jack’s, with a bottle of wine from his own little collection at home, and a loaf of bread under one arm, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waits on Jack to open the door, heart soaring when he does, relief flooding him. Why he should be so relieved...

“Can I come in?”

“Did you solve your case?” Jack smiles, stepping aside, holding the door for him.

“You… kind of did that for us.” He sidles past him, holds up both bread and wine. “A little something, towards dinner? That is-- if last night’s invitation will still stand, tonight.”

“Thank you.” He takes the loaf of bread in one hand, leans in and lets his lips brush Llewellyn’s chin, before drifting up to kiss his lower lip, to draw it gently between his own and thereby obliterate half Llewellyn’s thought processes. “What changed your mind?”

“Well, I had to thank you, didn’t I?”

“Oh, sure.” He tweaks his tie. “You look handsome.”

“If you say so.” Llewellyn scratches the back of his head. And… George might have noticed, that he was wearing the previous day’s suit, yesterday… a sign that he hadn’t taken all of his _things_ to Jack’s, despite his supposedly losing his own place. For that matter that there were no boxes or suitcases out, no mess to indicate there was another man temporarily staying on.

“Really, though. I-- I thought you wouldn’t come back tonight. Or… I was afraid I’d be waiting a while, to see you.”

“I wanted to thank you… and I wanted to apologize. It seems you keep getting dragged into my investigations, and… I didn’t-- I mean, it made things go much more quickly, but… I don’t like involving you, potential unpleasantness…”

“Not at all, it was… nice to see you.”

“You’re a terrible flirt.” Llewellyn accuses, leaning in and catching Jack in a kiss. “By the way. You know exactly… how to distract me.”

“Me distracting you?” He laughs, sets the bread on the table so that he has both hands free to grab Llewellyn by the hips, tugging him close. “I’m afraid I was busy putting all of my self-control into not doing any swooning of my own, Detective. If you were distracted, the fault is not mine for simply standing there in my own room.”

“Giving me that look.” Llewellyn reaches past him, to be able to set the wine down on the table, to free him up to wrap both arms around Jack.

“A look I reserve for devastatingly attractive men, I can hardly be blamed if you presented me with one to look at.”

“Jack…”

Jack tilts his head back, regards him with a slow smile, with a bitten lip, with a warmth that gradually rises to heat. “Yes?”

“Did you still want… to put your mouth on me? Places? I mean-- would you… tonight?”

He nods, one hand coming up to Llewellyn’s cheek. “Go and sit on the bed, let me turn down the stove, I’ll come to you.”

“Before…?”

“I’ve waited long enough already, to taste you. I’ve imagined…”

Llewellyn nods, sheds his jacket and his waistcoat on the way to the bed, hangs his hat on the bedpost. His picture has a frame now, on the nightstand, how odd to see himself smiling back, so young and so unaware… unaware of what the future would hold for him. He could never have imagined himself here, then. He could never have imagined himself happy, with the man he’d give his photograph to.

Presently, Jack comes to stand before him, his hands gentle as they remove Llewellyn’s tie, as they unbutton his shirt. He kneels to be able to finish, looks up at him with an intensity, a promise. He pushes Llewellyn’s knees wider apart, undoes his trousers, kisses down his stomach until he’s nuzzling along the line of dark hair. They don’t even speak, he simply… _is_ , _does_. When Jack directs him with a touch, he shifts to allow further undressing. When Jack’s eyes beg a question, he nods his answer.

He’s not erect, when Jack first takes him into his mouth, though he’s aroused, he’s been twitching his way towards erect since Jack first began to undress him. Once Jack does have his mouth on him, though, he quickly finds himself the rest of the way there. The wet heat, the silk of the inside of his cheek and the velvet of his tongue, it’s brand new, it’s incredible. He could extrapolate some things based on his limited and lonely experience-- that Jack’s hand would be better than his own, but comparable. That grinding into each other as they kissed would not be so different than any welcome pressure and friction, it would be the kissing-- or the words exchanged-- which made the difference everything it had been. But this? There was no preparing himself. 

Nor for the sight of it, even the most explicit of the materials from Paxton’s fireplace could not have prepared him for the sight of it. His own cock, sliding past Jack’s lips. The soft flush that has barely begun to spread across his face as he works, the scattered constellations of his freckles, the way his lashes brush his cheeks when his eyelids flutter closed in concentration or in ecstasy-- can he be enjoying the giving as much as he seems to be? And yet if he imagines their positions reversed, he finds there is a keen desire to give, nearly as keen as the desire to receive. Just to know… just to be able to please. And the way his eyes pin Llewellyn in place when they open again, the bright ring of color around the widened pupil. And his hands are so firm, where they keep his thighs spread, keep him in place. 

Jack moans around him and he has to slam his hand over his mouth to keep from making too much noise. One of Jack’s hands leaves his thigh, to take the one hand still clutching at the bedspread, and he pulls off with a wet pop as he guides Llewellyn’s hand to his hair.

“Can you give me a little tug, when you’re close?” He asks, the first thing he’s said at all since Llewellyn had moved to the bed, and for a moment he can’t process the words at all, is so shifted into another world, one where they’ve communicated without.

His own words won’t come, and so he nods, and that satisfies Jack.

“Good.” He smiles, lays a kiss to the tip, one hand now massaging at his thigh, the other coming to toy with his balls. “You’re… really lovely like this. And you feel right.”

And with that, he returns to it-- more kisses, sweeping passes of his tongue, teasing him-- but never too badly-- until he takes in all he can, into that heat, and he sucks, and he draws something out of him which seems more than mere physical pleasure.

He does manage to warn him-- actually, he doesn’t think he could have managed _not_ to, his hand tightens as he teeters on the verge, yanks just a little as he topples over. And Jack just swallows.

“Sorry…” Llewellyn says at last, stroking very gently over Jack’s scalp. “I’m sorry, that was--”

“You were perfect.” A kiss to the top of one thigh. “You did what I asked. Did you like it?”

He nods fervently, flushes with emotion as much as with arousal and exertion at the way Jack smiles at him when he does so.

“Good.” He rises, and his own arousal is clear, straining at the front of his trousers. 

“Should I-- _Might_ I?”

Jack hesitates, nods, and Llewellyn undoes his trousers with care, and a want disconnected from his own sexual arousal fills him, at the light brush of his hand over Jack, even through his clothes. 

“Go slow.” He cautions. “All right?”

Llewellyn nods, wrapping his hand around him. He starts by trying to replicate what Jack had done when he wasn’t taking him into his mouth entirely, lapping at him, kissing over him from root to tip, feeling the slide of saliva and precome in his hand, over his lips-- once or twice, against his cheek. He lets Jack’s groans guide him, soaks up the soft pleasure of both of Jack’s hands in his hair, gently massaging at his scalp rather than pulling his hair.

He pulls away, holds Llewellyn back from following with one hand, and then they each have a hand on his cock, pumping together, he finishes on Llewellyn rather than in his mouth.

“... Sorry.” He says, and his voice sounds rough and low and warm. “I didn’t want-- it takes some getting used to, at the end. I’ll clean you up.”

“I don’t mind.” Llewellyn replies, dazed. He doesn’t-- he imagines it would be less than pleasant to be surprised by it, he imagines it would be easy to choke a little on it. And he imagines that once he’s more accustomed to the act itself, he will be better able to add in the finish, and learn to do that well.

“You…” Jack starts, staring down at him. And then he seems just as much at a loss for words as Llewellyn often feels, and he caresses his clean cheek. “I’ll clean you up.”

He kneels to do it, reaching up instead of down, he washes the entirety of Llewellyn’s face with a warm, wet cloth, even though he had only come across a relatively small area. 

“You’re beautiful.” He says this time, stroking a thumb over Llewellyn’s lip, drinking him in as if they haven’t been looking at each other almost without interruption since he opened the door to him.

“Thank you.”

“Thank _you_. Are you-- Do you feel all right?”

“I think so.” He nods. “It’s new, but… you’re not. You’re… safe. And… trying new things with you feels safe.”

“Good, good. Oh, and here I’m going to let you get cold…” Jack tuts, pushes himself back up to his feet. He gives Llewellyn his dressing gown and slippers to wear rather than simply having him re-dress before dinner. 

He eats like that, and the kitchen is warm enough he doesn’t feel he needs more. It’s only after they’ve eaten that Jack helps him back into his clothes, doesn’t argue with him when he says he needs to go, just kisses him goodnight before they reach the door.

“We’ll do this again soon?” He asks.

“I’d like that. I’ll come and see you… I’ll come by, we can set a date.”

“Sure. You can return this.” He snags his scarf from where it hangs, wraps it around Llewellyn’s neck. “Don’t want you catching cold. And thank you again, for… coming by. For everything.”

“I should thank you, for everything.”

Jack kisses him again, and the warmth floods him when he does.

“Goodnight, lamb. Stay safe.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart. Sleep tight.”

The walk home is fine-- he doesn’t feel it too long or too cold-- but still, he thinks… next time, he’ll stay.


	11. The Closer You Get to the Fire the More You Get Burned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little accounting for moments of indiscretion...

“What would you send a woman as a thank you?” Llewellyn asks, from his spot in the bullpen-- currently, a chair which is facing away from George’s and Higgins’ desks, but which he is sitting backwards on to be able to assist the two with going over evidence for a minor matter. There are a few constables gathered around, he knows some of them. He supposes now he knows most of them to some degree. 

“Oh, sending something to your lady?” Higgins asks, grinning. “What are you thanking her for?”

“That’s right, we’ve never seen your lady, Detective.” McNab leans in closer. 

“Are we sure she exists?” One of the other men laughs.

“Oh, of course she does. I’ve seen her.” George says quickly. “Miss, uh, Smythe, was it? She’s a very nice girl, too. Or-- well I wasn’t properly introduced, I only saw her, but she seemed nice. Tall. Well, you know what I mean, the sort of tall that looks well with a gentleman of Detective Watts’ height.”

He flashes George a grateful smile, and then it sinks in-- George knows. He hadn’t told Jack George knows.

“Now, I don’t know what sort of thing you get that sort of a girl, but I can’t imagine she wouldn’t be happy with flowers, just as a token. I mean, I think if I were a girl I’d want to be sent flowers now and again. Does your Miss Smythe like flowers, Sir?”

“Uh… yes. She does. But that’s not actually-- I mean, I brought her flowers, but I’m-- I’m actually speaking about someone else. I would like to send a professional thank you to a woman of my acquaintance. I’m not sure what is appropriate as a token of my appreciation.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t know, Sir.”

“I’d thought _not_ flowers, as she _is_ a married woman.”

“Perhaps just a card, then.” George nods. “I don’t think any husband could get bent out of shape over a professional thank you in a card.”

“Mm. Right. Well. Thank you, George. I shall… compose that later.”

Later, because now he has the very pressing issue of, Jack needs to know that George knows, and he ought to have told him last night, except that he spent last night recovering from the unimaginable ecstasy of Jack’s mouth and all the things it had done to him, and all the things he had begun to learn to do in return. By the time he left him, he had not fully recovered his wits.

He does have to return Jack’s scarf to him-- again-- and so he might be able to get a moment alone with him, if he heads over close to Jack’s lunch. 

The shop is busy when he arrives-- he comes in to see Jack hanging up something large in the window, finds himself momentarily distracted by the sight of him. While a customer stops him to ask a question, Llewellyn turns to quietly return the scarf to a waiting hook. He can let Jack know it’s there when he gets the chance… and with any luck, no one will notice him. 

He’s leaning against the far wall, watching Jack move between helping people, stretching up to grab a hanging sausage here, moving behind the counter to slice this or that, making recommendations, directing people to what it is they want… he doesn’t think he’s ever been in during such a busy period, but no one thinks it’s odd if a woman come into the shop and he waves her ahead to be polite. And _eventually_ they would have to finish up and clear out. He contemplates flipping the sign to closed, but it’s still slightly early and he hasn’t been asked…

And anyway, he could spend all day leaning against the wall and watching Jack at work.

“Detective Watts, funny running into you here again!” Mrs. Brackenreid greets him-- at this point perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. 

Her voice ringing out through the shop gets Jack’s attention. He turns from the customer he’s helping, flashing the barest smile Llewellyn’s way-- small, easy to miss, but brimming with warmth. There’s so much warmth in him, he wonders if people see that. 

“I’ll be with you in just a moment, if you don’t mind the wait.” Jack says, and he nods, giving him a little wave, watching him turn back to finish up with the queue of actual customers. 

“I suppose we run our errands around the same times. Ah… how is John?”

“Oh, he’s well. Such a shame about how things went at the theatre, his first big night and all, but he’s soldiering on. You ought to visit, I think it would do him some good. I mean of course he has friends now, but I don’t know.” She sighs and shakes her head. “I mean it’s so _scattered_ , isn’t it? When you don’t work steadily with the same group of people, it just doesn’t seem… well. But John always looked up to you. And there’s something so _transient_ about an actor’s life. Don’t get me wrong, of course I’m _very_ proud of him, but it wouldn’t hurt him to have _some_ kind of steady friendships in his life, with non-actors. I just don’t trust that sort of person to give reasonable advice. I mean, they all became _actors_ , for goodness’ sake!”

“Oh. Yes. Well. I’ll be sure to… arrange something.” He nods. It would be nice. Go out for a bite to eat somewhere and catch up, listen to what life in the theatre is like when there aren’t murders going on… keep up a friendship that doesn’t revolve around work. He’s new to that, but it’s nice. It’s very nice, in fact. He has the book club penciled in on his calendar, another night of discussing Plato’s Symposium and then someone will select the next book, and he likes that. He may need to remind himself, now and then, that to other people, there’s nothing suspicious about the group as a whole, but he likes to think in time he could call Jack’s friends his own. 

He never much had friends. Not when he was a boy-- not beyond his brothers. It was what it was, he was… lonely sometimes, but he wouldn’t have wanted to befriend the other children he knew, who were not always kind, who were not understanding. As a constable, he’d wanted to be able to make friends, but it had seemed beyond him, as if all the others had been given some guidebook which he had not, and it didn’t get any easier when he made detective, not when he was at stationhouse one… 

And now, now people like him. Jack’s friends, who had encouraged him reading aloud at the table and weighing in with his thoughts and taking second helpings of everything. George, who had promised to keep his secret. John, who looks up to him… looks up to him! Even now, when he’s not pursuing a career in law enforcement, and Llewellyn can’t imagine what else there even is about him for John to look up to him for, but the idea that he does warms him.

“What have you come in for?” She asks, changing the subject and breaking him from his thoughts.

“Oh… I just come in and put myself in Mister Walker’s capable hands, and he sends me off with what I need. I mean, I don’t have a proper kitchen at my disposal, so… I make do based on what he recommends.”

“Well, he _can_ make a recommendation.” She nods. “I still don’t know what my husband was thinking… mind, if I had listened to that man when he told me we were changing butchers, do you think he’d have been happy with what I brought home? Of course not.”

“Mm. Indeed. Indeed. Well, and you would know best, about these things, I’m sure. The inspector is a lucky man to have you.”

“ _Thank_ you, Detective. I really don’t mind agreeing with you some days.”

“And, of course… if discretion is a factor still, then… you and I have never…” He gestures between them and around the shop. “Met in this particular establishment.”

“Oh, by now I’m sure he’s forgotten all about it.” She laughs. “But I appreciate it just the same.”

As the shop begins to empty, he does flip the sign, and one by one customers get what they came for and leave. Llewellyn lets his mind wander a little, as Jack sees to Mrs. Brackenreid at last-- the final impediment to the two of them being alone at last. Once they are, of course, he has a less than happy conversation to begin, but still… at least it’s a conversation which can be had back in the office, where they can hold hands, hold each other. He finds himself staring at-- or through-- a sales display, lost in romantic fantasy.

Jack, pulling him close… Jack, kissing him. He doesn’t think they’d go any further, in the office, but Jack could kiss him. Hold onto him tight and tell him… tell him that he couldn’t wait to see him again, that it had to be tonight, that there was yet so much more for them to experience together… Jack pressing him up against the file cabinet, their bodies close, his kisses teasingly light and coming between whispered words of love. Promises about the evening’s menu if he comes, and about what he might do to him in the privacy of his room, and about how lovely all of it could be if he only says yes, and Jack loosening his tie, his collar, to kiss his throat… doing it all back up again after, the dizziness of a midday rendezvous… Any roughness born of desire tempered by Jack’s aching gentleness with him, but that gentleness tempered by the volume of their need. To be wanted! To be responsible for driving a man to distraction! To be made love to just a little, and begged or commanded to more.

“-- lamb?” Jack asks, from somewhere in the back of the shop.

“Yes?” He calls back, before he can quite catch up to himself, to the real world, or to what the preceding question had been.

“Oh, I think it had better be something different this week.” Margaret Brackenreid says, at the same time, is still in the shop and still being helped, and Jack appears behind the counter, shooting Llewellyn a look which-- knowing Jack, knowing his subtleties-- verged rather closely on panic.

“Sorry.” He stares right back at him, just as panicked, glances between the two of them, Jack’s subdued yet wide-eyed fear and Margaret Brackenreid’s curious confusion. He holds up a hand, shrinking in on himself. “I thought I heard… not that. I thought I-- misheard, sorry. You’re still-- busy. No rush! Just… definitely did not hear… what I thought I heard.”

He turns on his heel and busies himself staring at something else, blood pounding in his ears, until finally the bell over the door rings over the sound of his own rapid heart and Jack locks the door and draws the shades before moving to him.

“What was _that_?”

“Sorry-- I wasn’t… I haven’t _been_ thinking straight, since last night, and-- You’re going to be angry…”

Jack’s face falls, he takes Llewellyn by the arm and gently leads him back towards the deeper privacy of the office. “No-- no, Llew, I’m not. I’m… _terrified_ , that your boss’ wife just caught you… responding to a pet name! And if that means something for you. But I-- No, I’m not angry with you.”

“It’s George. Constable Crabtree, who was-- Whose paramour lives in your building and who… saw me coming out of your room. I mean he _didn’t_ see me come out of your room. But he saw me in the corridor, he knew it was _a_ room, one of a very small number of rooms. And when we went back to… He figured it out. After we spoke with you. He’s not going to say anything! I-- I came up with an excuse, he-- he won’t even tell anyone about _that_ , but… I was going to tell you the other night, but it slipped my mind.”

Jack’s face cycles through some things. He spends much of his time listening to Llewellyn with one hand clamped over his mouth. 

“It _slipped your mind_?” He says at last, though he doesn’t raise his voice. Which is something. “Someone you work with knows I’m your lover, and it slipped your mind?”

“You know exactly why it slipped my mind.” He says, making the only defense he can. It breaks some of the tension-- Jack even looks rather pleased with himself, despite his worry. 

“You could have told me _before_ I sucked you off, I couldn’t have known it was going to make you forget vital information, like a police constable knowing about us.”

“I was going to, and then you were… you’re very distracting, you know, I-- I forgot to worry about it, once you kissed me.”

“Once I _kissed_ you?” Jack leans back, softly wondering. “So… well before…”

“I’m sorry, Jack. But… I trust him. We’ve been through a good deal, and he’s a good man. He… he didn’t flinch, or sneer, or any of the things people might-- he just told me our secret was safe. And today, in front of the others, he, uh… pretended to have seen me out with a lady friend, so. I trust him.”

“If you trust him… and he’s already covered for you? I suppose I owe him my thanks.” He rests his hands at Llewellyn’s waist. “But do you think Margaret Brackenreid believes you just… misheard something?”

“I think she knows me as a somewhat eccentric person. It’s not unreasonable.”

“I know the alternative would be stranger. Given the choice between believing you misheard something while deep in thought or believing you let strange butchers call you ‘lamb’, I know the former is more likely than the latter. It’s less about what she thought of that and more about what happens if she goes home and it’s just a meaningless anecdote to _her_ , but if your name and mine both come up to her husband…”

“But your name and mine _won’t_ both come up to her husband, if she’s letting him believe she’s changed butchers. I-- I mean, won’t--?”

“It depends on whether or not he does just… get past it. Me. Right now… we’re probably not in danger. If she was to say it didn’t matter and that he would rather get a better deal closer to home than go elsewhere, then… I don’t know. I really don’t. I never thought I’d be _glad_ to say one of my first customers doesn’t want a nancy cutting his meat, but if she’s not mentioning where she goes… then even if she mentions seeing you or you acting strange, you’re not with _me_. That’s the important part… He just can’t know you’ve been around _me_.”

“I feel sick.” He curls in on himself, lets his forehead rest on Jack’s shoulder, tries to draw comfort from the way Jack’s arms come up around him. “I can’t believe I-- I didn’t think, I just…”

“Shh… it’s all right. We’ll be all right. We will be. I’m not thrilled, Llew, but I’m not angry with you for a mistake. Although I think we should establish a rule here, I’m not going to call you ‘lamb’ around the meat.”

“Mm.”

“You should eat something.”

“I’ll be sick.”

“You’ll feel sick either way, you don’t want to be sick with nothing on your stomach. It’s worse.”

“I should have been careful, I--”

“Shh… shh… could you drink something?”

Llewellyn hesitates a moment, thinking carefully, but then he nods, and lets Jack deposit him in his chair. 

“I’ll be right back. I’m not angry. We’re going to be safe.”

He groans and rests his head in his hands, elbows propped up on the desk. He stays that way until Jack returns with a tray. Two teacups and a mug, two slices of bread, two hardboiled eggs.

“Just… try and get down what you can.” He pushes the mug towards Llewellyn. “I’m making stock-- if all you can do is sip at something, at least you could sip at something that’ll give you a little strength for the rest of the day.”

The aroma doesn’t turn his stomach any sourer-- quite the opposite. After a few cautious sips, he accepts one of the slices of bread, tearing off small pieces to dip into it. Savoring the thickness of it as much as the taste, the mouthfeel. There’s something comforting about it. 

“Is this for soup later?”

“For someone’s soup.” Jack shrugs. “I wind up with a lot of carcasses to boil down, and there are a lot of working women and not an insignificant number of working men, who haven’t always got all day to boil one of their own, or who haven’t got the bones on hand from a previous meal. But if you put a few jars up on the shelf, and the longest part of the work is done, it makes soup a lot easier. And it’s a brisk seller when the weather starts to turn.”

“Mm.”

Jack takes his hat, tossing it down on the desk and stroking his hair. “We’ll be all right. I mean… I’ve had worse brushes.”

“I just… it’s that I’ve been _careless_. Everything I ever said, about protecting you, about keeping you safe, and then I’m the one who-- I didn’t even think. I didn’t think.”

“You’ll keep me safe enough. Everyone says something careless sometime. It’s impossible to live your whole life with a secret this big and never slip up-- I’d wager somewhere in the world, someone slips up every day. And he spends the rest of that day looking over his shoulder, and in the morning he realizes no one noticed. Could you eat an egg?”

“No.”

“Take one with you?”

He nods. That he could do. When the fear settles a little more, he’ll be hungry. “You aren’t angry?”

“I don’t think I could be, with you.” He tousles Llewellyn’s hair, where it has a tendency of falling forward over his brow, twirls a lock around his finger. “Not for very long… I can’t see you doing something to hurt me. I can’t be angry for the same mistakes we all make. Worried, not angry. And…”

“And?”

“You’re cute.” He shrugs. “And I don’t like to see you sad. Llewellyn… if I’m angry, it’s with the world, for making this our life, when other men get a better one. A fuller one. It’s not with you. And if anything happens to you, you come to me, I’ll take care of you.”

“What if something happens to you?”

“Then… come to me anyway, and take care of me.”

He nods, setting down his mug and reaching for Jack. “Could I come tonight? If no one sees me?”

“Yes. Even if the whole world saw you, yes. What do you want for supper?”

“I’m afraid if I think too much about it, I’ll be sick.”

“All right.” Jack smooths his hair back out. “I’ll worry about it. Something easy on your stomach. This whole thing… it won’t look so bad in the morning. I promise, beloved, I’ve been through it before. You get through the shock and you get through the fear, and it will start to settle in that no one’s noticed what seemed glaring to you.”

He lets Jack soothe him a little longer, before he has to go. He spends the day cringing, waiting, looking over his shoulder, but Jack had had a point-- nothing happens. 

This time, when he prepares to go over to Jack’s place, he packs some things-- he packs light, he doesn’t want to be seen lurking around with an overnight bag. But if a briefcase holds less of what a briefcase might be expected to hold and more a toothbrush, a set of underthings, and a clean shirt, who needs to know except him?

And, it holds enough stationery to allow him to pen a letter, while Jack cooks. He has to move painstakingly slow with it, to produce a neat hand rather than the untidy scrawl that makes up his notes to himself, but he has a little time and it is important. It has to be legible, after all, or it’s not much of a thank you.

_Dear Doctor Ogden,_

_I must thank you for your recent advice. I am spending a difficult evening with my sweetheart, and I write you from her kitchen table. She is making dinner for us both. She has offered a sensible perspective on the problems of the day._

_You know better than most of my friends, what difficulties I have had in my life and what I have lost. I want you to know that, having spoken with you, I feel at home here. I am allowing myself to feel at home here. It is difficult, and may always be difficult, to feel that I cannot do enough for her, to balance out what I have been given. I am trying to tell myself that there are things which I could offer which are not everyday comforts and should not be. There are places where I may be useful which I would rather she have no use for, as generally, the more useful I am, the more trouble there would have to be. But I think you were onto something, it is a kind of favor to let myself be taken care of. She does not consider it hard work or unpleasant, to look after me. And I am finding those everyday comforts which I am fit to offer. I am working to keep your counsel in mind and even on a difficult evening I am a happier man than I thought I was destined to be._

_I don’t think that I can properly express what you have done for me. In fact I know that I cannot. I can only offer you my humble thanks, for you have done me a greater service than I think you can realize._

_With sincerest thanks,_

_Llewellyn Watts_

He gets it finished and carefully set aside, in time to set the table for Jack.

“What have you been working on?” Jack kisses his cheek, as they move around each other, as he gets stewed chicken and rice spooned out onto plates and Llewellyn gets glasses filled.

“A letter. Thanking the doctor I told you about. It… occurs to me, that I might be having an even more difficult time, if I could not have been convinced to… let you care for me.”

“I should be sending a thank you, then, it sounds like. And to your constable.”

“Mm. Well, if you’re serious about thanking George, the most effective medium might be frankfurter sausage and not a heartfelt letter. But I can add a post script, after dinner. If you’d like to express any gratitude.”

“All right.” He laughs. “And if George ever comes by my shop, I will be certain to thank him for his discretion in the form of meat. Now… you really will feel better if you eat.”

“Yes. I think I will.”


	12. What Do They Know About This Love Anyway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of people who can't know about this... 
> 
> There are a couple of people who can.

“But what about you?” Llewellyn moans, arching his back, pushing up into Jack, into the weight of his body and the pressure of his hands. “What-- _ohh_ , what can I do to make you feel better?”

“You’re doing it.” Jack smiles, he doesn’t need to be able to see him to know which smile he’s wearing, he can hear it in his voice as those strong hands dig in hard. 

“I’m being serious.” He protests. Jack has soothed his worries, fed him dinner, undressed him-- hung his suit up for him this time!-- and proceeded to lie him facedown on the bed so that he could work all of the tension out of his body, and he’s managing it, he’s accepting it, this care, but he does think when he was the one at fault for their current worries, he ought to be taking better care of Jack.

“So am I.” 

And then, Jack… shifts, where hes straddling him-- Jack half in his pajamas, Llewellyn stripped down to his shorts-- and he _grinds_ against him, just once, lets him feel the press and drag of his arousal against the cleft of his ass. 

“ _Oh_.”

“You just have to be here, you just have to let me take care of you… that’s what makes me happy. And… it doesn’t hurt, if you want to make a little noise. While I’ve got my hands on you...”

“Oh, _Jack_ \-- Jack… would-- would you want…?” He stumbles over the words, over finishing that sentence. The problem isn’t reticence, so much as it is that he doesn’t know how the sentence should be finished, what to communicate, how to communicate it clearly. He needs… he needs a better understanding of how these things work, between men, before he offers something only to be told no one really does that. That he’s mistranslated something or taken the wrong idea from the sort of dirty jokes you hear when the men telling them don’t know you’re the kind of man who… who does or does not do certain things, the ins and outs of which he’s still learning. 

He doesn’t know if he could bring himself to ask someone other than Jack, but he wants to be able to know things, to not have to rely on him entirely-- to be able to bring something to the table.

“That would be… all right with you? Because if you just want to relax--”

“I want to make you feel good. And… I want… With your hands on me like this, I-- I _want_. I want to… I want to feel you satisfied.”

“All right.” Jack whispers, strokes his back in long, firm sweeps to gentle him. “You can still relax, but… there is something I want, if you’re offering…”

He tugs his shorts down, and must also be getting rid of his own pajamas-- mostly Llewellyn can feel the shifting of the bed, hear the rustling of fabric. He feels… exposed, with his shorts just pulled down in the back, waistband now tucked beneath the curve of his backside, on _display_. It’s a good kind of exposed feeling, he realizes, it’s… there’s a thrill at the idea of being looked at and wanted, like this. 

“Is this what running gets you?” Jack’s hands are on him now, squeezing. “Oh… oh, that’s…”

“Good?”

“ _Yes_.” Squeezing, and now, _spreading_. “Oh god-- Llewellyn… just that you’re mine tonight…”

He hums, rolling his hips, pushing back up into Jack’s hands. They only leave him briefly, return to knead at him again, lotioned up as they had been to work on his upper back. It’s a curious thing, the combination of a low-burning desire and the relaxation. As far as his own physical needs, he’s far more tuned into the relaxation side, enjoying having Jack slowly and methodically reduce his muscles to jelly, but the idea of being able to bring him pleasure… the idea of Jack, wanting him, feeling good, of being able to do something for him… he could never be unaffected by that.

And then, there’s Jack, the length of his cock fit snugly into the cleft of Llewellyn’s ass, rocking against him. The spreading and the squeezing and the adjusting, until something… _sparks_. There’s something right about the way they feel together, about the drag of Jack’s body against his and the way that he moves and the _intimacy_ of this. No one’s touched him like this before-- no one’s touched him in so _many_ of the ways Jack has, true, but this… this is different. It’s different, and it’s good, and he’s growing harder, pressed into the mattress, his cock dragging against it with every thrust of Jack’s against him. 

“You feel so good…” Jack says, low and breathy against the back of his shoulder, there between kisses. His lips travel along that shoulder towards Llewellyn’s neck, his teeth scrape over the skin. “Llew… Llew, you feel so good.”

His hand slips underneath them, frees Llewellyn’s cock from confinement and works him in time with rolling thrusts. The kisses to his neck are even more heated. The way he’s pressed down into the bed, there’s something he can’t put words to about. The way the rocking of their bodies leads to friction against the bedsheets, the way it’s almost too much and yet in other places he wonders if it’s not nearly enough, if there’s more somehow. The confusion of the fire in him, the way his head reels. The way pleasure _shocks_ him, when Jack’s teeth close over the juncture of neck and shoulder, and it’s not hard, or it could be harder, but it’s… 

_Enough_.

When the world comes back into soft focus, from the whiting out of his senses, Jack is kissing the back of his neck, down past the spot he’d bitten, towards the point of his shoulder, all slowness and gentleness. They’re not pressed so close together anymore, he’s holding himself up, allowing Llewellyn a little room to breathe. 

“How was that?” He asks, dropping one last kiss to Llewellyn’s shoulder before lifting himself off. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

“Good. I liked it.” He sighs. His shorts are still around his thighs and he feels utterly boneless and he’s coated in sweat, but he’s _happy_. “I… is that… is that what it’s like?”

“What what’s like?” Jack chuckles. “Sex? Sometimes.”

“Yes.” Another sigh, and he listens to Jack head into the small bath, listens to the water run a little. There ought to be more of a damp spot beneath him, he thinks. Unless Jack had managed to catch most of it, he must have. 

His back is wiped down, not just Jack’s release, but the sweat, both of theirs. A tap to his hip prompts him to roll over, and Jack finishes cleaning him up, gazing down fondly at him. 

“You’re beautiful.” Jack strokes his chest, then his brow. “I want this… Is it so crazy? I want this every night. You… in my bed. Looking like this.”

“Looking like what?”

“Relaxed. Happy.” He smiles, bends down over him to kiss his nose. “ _Gorgeous_.”

Llewellyn reaches up, cupping Jack’s cheek, letting his gaze roam a little. It’s too much, to meet his eyes, to hold his gaze. But he can look at the shape of his smile. At his bare chest in the room’s half light. 

“Maybe it is… but if it was safe to, I-- I would. Crazy or not. You… you know, you look good, too.”

“Oh?” He takes Llewellyn’s hand, just toying gently with him, and biting down on his lip, for all the good it does against a sudden glowing smile. “Good how?”

“Good here.” With his free hand, he traces a path down over Jack’s chest, then up to his shoulder, along his arm. “Here… here. But… more than that, I-- When I saw you, for the first time, I knew your smile. Like I had felt it. Like I knew what it was to be… unable to relax, all of the time. To be in control. And it’s a beautiful smile, but it’s like it’s always kept so small. And here, like this, I can see you smile, with your whole face. And… I wonder how many people… miss all that there is in you. How beautiful you are. But I-- I see the world in you, Jack. If I could stay, every night, I would.”

Jack squeezes his hand, and turns away with a soft sound. For a long moment they’re frozen just so, connected, unable to look at each other. Then, Jack slides into bed, without bothering to find his pajamas, and he gets the covers over both of them, wordless. Llewellyn wriggles the rest of the way out of his shorts, before making himself at home with his head on Jack’s shoulder. There’s a pillow he could use… but he likes this, just a little more. Just for a moment, at least.

In the morning, he lets Jack feed him breakfast and pack him lunch-- though he remembers, with an odd and not unpleasant squirm to the pit of his stomach, being caught in the process of slinking out and having food sent with him anyway-- and he tries to quiet the anxieties that build up in him, the closer he gets to work. He posts his letter along the way, but otherwise he doesn’t put off going in, he’s in the bullpen bright and early enough. And he doesn’t come into a room where everyone knows his life, he doesn’t walk in to disaster. He walks in and it’s a perfectly routine day.

He takes the unoccupied chair next to George’s desk again, and he perks up when George comes in.

“George! I wanted to-- that is, for your _discretion_ , in the matter of-- ah, in the matter of my…”

“Oh, please don’t say another word, Sir, if you’re referring to the matter of your ‘Miss Smythe’.” He shakes his head. “I mean it’s only right, isn’t it? I daresay if it was my personal life and you were privy to information I wanted kept a bit hush-hush around the station, you’d be… you know.”

“This is more than that, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so.”

There’s an enormity to those four brief words. _I don’t think so_. As if this were any ordinary personal matter, and not… well, illegal, to begin with. George is not-- cannot be-- so naive as to imagine that he spends the night in another man’s bed but draws some line so as not to break that law. No one could be that naive. George has as much of an idea as it’s possible to have about… well, the particular law which Llewellyn has been breaking. A law which he had once been determined not to violate, and which within a day of meeting one Jack Walker, knew in his heart he would be violating repeatedly and in all ways if he were only granted the opportunity. One which most men consider an issue of morality and which most men have a visceral reaction of disgust to, and which this man treats as a simple and private thing, no different from anyone else’s private business.

“If you don’t mind my saying, Detective, I think it’s nice you’re _happy_.” George adds, after some silence. “We’ve both been through quite a lot, these past few years, I think we deserve whatever little happiness we can find. When Effie came into my life, I mean, I wasn’t really looking for love. I was rather off the subject, if I’m honest, it was a curious kind of a time for me… Well! It was one... doozy of a day! And if I was going to meet a girl and fall in love with her, I wouldn’t have expected it to be her. But I think I needed to not be alone, and if she turns out to be the one for me, I think that’d make me happy. And I don’t see why you shouldn’t have the same sort of happiness.”

“Thank you, George.”

“And I wanted to say--” He glances around the now-bustling bullpen, briefly over to Higgins, who’s taken up his usual seat. “Er, just that… that your Miss Smythe… well, that she reminds me of Emily. The-- the girl I used to step out with. I don’t know if I told you about Emily--”

“Doctor Grace?” Higgins looks up from his work, brow furrowing slightly. “Doctor Grace wasn’t very tall.”

“Well I’m not saying they were alike in that aspect, Henry, I’m saying they were alike in other ways, from what I could… ascertain!”

“Didn’t she throw you over for another woman?”

“She most certainly did not, those things were unrelated. As I see it, after we parted ways, and I declined the rekindling of our relationship on the basis that I really did need to think seriously about it, and the basis that there were, really-- not that you’d know every detail, Henry!-- a lot of reasons why we might have been better as friends than as sweethearts, I mean as I see it… well, after me, she decided that no other man would really do. And so, yes, she did have a girl after that. But I don’t see that as a negative, I certainly don’t see it as saying anything about _me_.”

“I wouldn’t go comparing another man’s sweetheart to a sapphist, is my point.”

“You can’t argue that she wasn’t a beautiful girl, you asked her out once yourself! Charming, and… unsqueamish.”

“Yeah, but I doubt Miss Smythe saws through ribcages.” Higgins laughs.

“You never know with these modern girls.” George says, tilts Llewellyn a look that makes him laugh as well-- if not for the same reason Higgins has. “Anyhow, that’s all I wanted to say. I retain a great fondness for Emily Grace, even if our lives have gone off in very different directions. I think it’s a perfectly fine comparison, I mean a perfectly flattering one. To say that her reminding me of Emily means I am, therefore, a bit… inclined to think well on the relationship.”

“Well, again, thank you, George.”

“Not at all, Sir.” He nods and returns to his work, and after a silence of some moments, picks up his head again. “I wish I’d thought to ask her-- it seems awkward to in a letter-- if it’s very different, kissing a man or kissing a woman. Given she’d know.”

“Mm. Personally I only find one of them pleasant.” Llewellyn shrugs-- and Higgins laughs, and he supposes that’s for the best and all, that he take it as a joke and that he take it as being about the wrong one, but it bothers him, that it has to be.

“Really, Sir? Now I’d imagine that with kissing, if you close your eyes, there’s very little difference, isn’t there? But perhaps I’m wrong. I mean I’ve kissed my fair share of girls over the years and they’re all different from each other, but they’re all nice. If I was blindfolded and told I was kissing a girl and it wasn’t, would I know the difference? I mean if he was clean-shaven, and if we didn’t otherwise touch, and he didn’t speak or the like.”

“Why would someone blindfold you, tell you you were going to be kissed by a girl, and then get a _man_ to kiss you, George?” 

“Oh, why does anyone do anything, Henry? I mean… the question isn’t why, that’s not the point of the exercise. Just forget about it.”

“I think it would be different. I think… you’d know.” Llewellyn says quietly. “I mean… even if a girl was forward, or forceful, it… it’s different. Being kissed by her wouldn’t really be like being kissed like a man. There would be little things that would… bother you. The wrong smell, even if you couldn’t put your finger on it, even if you wouldn’t know, or you wouldn’t know how you knew. The wrong chemical reaction. You could believe it was something you were supposed to want, but… you wouldn’t be able to. You’d… sense it was wrong for you.”

“Huh. Well, I suppose you’d… yes, I suppose if there’s chemistry involved, you might. I hadn’t considered that. Unless, chemically, your natural state was… I don’t know, neutral, somehow. Then I suppose yes, you’d…”

“If it was me, I think I’d be upset at being blindfolded and kissed by a stranger even if she told me she’d be a woman.” Higgins adds. “I don’t think it’s right blindfolding people and lying to them and kissing them against their will, that seems _pretty_ dodgy.”

“Well, no, obviously none of us want to be kidnapped or kissed by the people we aren’t already… engaged in kissing on an exclusive basis. But that’s, again, not the point of the exercise, Henry.”

“I just know, I’m against it.”

“Yes, I know _you_ are.” George grumbles and folds his arms, the amount of work going on at their desks slowing considerably on his end even as it picks up on Higgins’.

Later, he finally gets the chance to stretch his legs, George accompanying him on another minor matter, the morning’s conversation largely forgotten-- or, at least, put behind them. He doesn’t think there’s any forgetting the odd but easy acceptance with which he’s been greeted.

It’s as he’s unwrapping his lunch, during a quiet trip down a side street, that the subject of his relationship comes back up.

“Oh, is that…? I mean, did your, ah, sweetheart send that with you?” George asks. 

“Yes.”

“What is that, roast beef? Maybe _I_ should be courting a butcher.”

“Ah, but then you wouldn’t be courting your Miss Newsome. Besides which, I already have the best one.”

“That is true, Sir, that’s a very good point.”

“And that’s not _why_ I-- why we--”

“Oh, no, of course not. But I wager it doesn’t hurt any.”

Llewellyn smiles, ducking his head. “It doesn’t. I’ve been… very well taken care of, just lately.”

“That’s good, that’s good. Er, Sir? Earlier… when we were discussing whether there was much fundamental difference, between the sexes-- at least when it comes to kissing-- do you… do you really not think it’s man’s natural state to be capable of liking both, then?”

“I don’t know, George. My natural state is different from most men’s. I know, because I’ve tried, that it’s not in me to appreciate both, not in that way. Do you, like both?”

“Well that’s just it, I don’t know, Sir. I mean, I’d always been comfortable in my assumption that I chose to like girls the same as anyone, but that anyone could… I mean, if all things were equal, that anyone could go either way, and the reason we mostly don’t is procreative. And that we’ve made a lot of rules and such to encourage more procreation and less… _recreation_. Not that a girl can’t be very recreational. But everyone else seems to have a much more set preference. I mean, I do have my preference, but it’s… I think I have much better taste in women than I do in men.”

“You do tend to like girls with ambition.”

“Yes, that’s as I’ve been told. But it’s not only ambition. It’s principle. Talent. Intellect. Those are the things I find important in a woman.”

“And in a man?”

“I regret to say, Sir, absolutely none of those qualities seem to mean anything to me. Not that I can’t find a man admirable, who has all those things, but it’s different. I mean, take Detective Murdoch. If I were at all sensible, I might be in love with him. I mean he’s a very fine man. And in my own small way I think it’s fair to call me devoted to him. But I wouldn’t be happy to have his interest. For starters, think of Doctor Ogden, I mean the two of them are meant for each other. But I just mean, I wouldn’t like to be… appreciated in return. And I’ve met so many interesting men who I’ve liked knowing very much! But do I want them? No. If they showed a lick of interest in me that way, the fascination would dry up in an instant!”

“Mm. Perhaps it’s… safer, if it remains the stuff of fantasy.”

“Well, no. Would that that were it. No, it seems like I have a preference and it’s the precise opposite of what I admire in a woman. I have never in my life loved-- I mean, really truly loved-- a man who was principled or talented or possessed of great intellect. It’s definitely for the best I’ve loved mostly women. And only one of those went and took up with a girl. I mean of course you get over it, you get over it, but then sometimes it’s difficult all over again for the silliest reasons.”

“... I see.” He says. He doesn’t.

Or, he does, a little. Possibly. Emotions are strange and lawless things, and you don’t choose who you fall for. And old emotions boil up sometimes, when you’re in a stable situation, and they threaten to upend you. In his own case, the old emotions which trouble him have nothing to do with former romances. Just old losses he’s never learned to deal with, and the heaviness of having gone so long without anything he could truly call a home. They’ve still plagued him now that he’s living his best possible life, led him to doubt and worry.

“Silly to think about, perhaps. But it’s not so easy to turn it off sometimes.”

“You can’t turn it off.” Llewellyn agrees, clapping a hand on George’s shoulder. “But that doesn’t mean you need to be preoccupied by it, either. The way I see it… you’ve been allowed a choice most of us lack. But given the choice between someone who’s no good for you, for whatever reason-- a lack of those qualities you prize, or simply because you could never live openly-- and someone who is ambitious on your behalf, who wants to take care of you in her way, and who you do find admirable… I think you’ve made the right choice.”

“The choice was never really mine to make, Sir. Perhaps that’s why it’s not so easy to resolve. But… that’s a good point, right now, I am happy with someone. Anything else is rendered immaterial. And… thank you for listening. It’s… hardly the sort of problem I can much talk about with… anyone.”

“Well. You can… come to me, then, if you ever just need… If you ever just need to breathe.”

“Thank you, Sir. I just might at that. But… if I do, it won’t be some big crisis, I don’t think. Just… as you say, being able to breathe. Sure we could both use that from time to time.”

He winds up losing George’s help on the case, when a bigger one needs all available hands, but it’s a minor enough thing he _can_ wrap it up without help. And it’s agreeable enough to work alone on something less important, while everyone else is handling something big.

On Sunday afternoon, he meets Jack again, in the park. They don’t really _do_ anything, nor do they risk another night together so soon after so much time. They simply sit on a bench, and talk about nothing of great consequence, and wait for the sun to set. 

“Do you remember when you took me down to my cell, the first time?” Jack asks, quiet, when it does. Brings out and unwraps supper for them, that their hands brush over the passing of.

“Yes.” Llewellyn whispers back. A little over a month back… but he doesn’t think that further time could erase the details. 

“I’ve been thinking about it today. I don’t know why. I’ve been thinking… just about how we met. It was the first time we touched, do you remember? Your hand at my back, just for a moment… you were apologizing to me, as we went through the door. And then you apologized again for that. As if anyone else wouldn’t have put me in handcuffs and paraded me through the whole way, as if anyone else wouldn’t have grabbed me and thrown me in, and laughed if it hurt. Your hand just touched my back, and you pulled away and apologized.”

“I’d forgotten that part. Or… I was apologizing so much to you, I didn’t really think…”

“You stood out to me. That’s all. And… I’d have let you touch me a little more, considering. Before I was ready to notice you, I trusted you that much. You were kind. I needed kindness. And… you’ve been kind, since. I’m lucky it was you.”

“And I’m lucky it was you. Not just… helping me, or-- But, being you. Getting to know you. I’m still not used to being so lucky.”

“Maybe… in a couple of nights… you could come around again? Tomorrow, I--”

“Your mother. I know.”

“Tuesday night, or Wednesday?”

“I’d like that.” He smiles, shifts to let his knee bump into Jack’s. “Tuesday. I-- Tuesday.”

Jack looks surprised a moment, before relaxing into a smile of his own, nodding. He rests his arm across the back of the bench. “Tuesday it is. What will you have? If I could cook you anything for dinner that night?”

“Oh-- anything you want to make…”

“Choose something.” Jack leans in-- not so much as to be obvious, as to pierce whatever personal bubble of space can exist between two men sharing a park bench, but it is enough to make his breath catch, to be clear for them alone that he is leaning in, that the closeness is wanted. “Anything you want, it’s yours.”

“I don’t-- I’m not… _accustomed_ \--”

“I know. That’s why it matters. Now want something.”

“I don’t want to ask for too much.” He shrugs.

“ _Try_ and ask me for more than I’m waiting to give you.”

“I don’t know. A roast? I don’t-- I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Jack nods. “Okay. Tuesday night. I will have a roast waiting for you. Bring a wine you like, I’ll have everything else.”

“All right, then. Can I-- can I walk you home?”

“Best just be to the front door this time. But… yes. Please.”

It’s a pleasant walk. It would be pleasanter, if they could touch, if he could offer his arm, if he could bring Jack’s hand to his lips… if they could be like anyone else, even for one night. If he could feel safe, taking even a moment of what other people get.

At the front door, Jack takes him by the wrist. His thumb makes one warm circle just over Llewellyn’s pulse.

“Jack--?”

“I’m lucky to have met you. That’s all. And I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

Llewellyn nods. There’s nothing more to say, nothing more he dares-- but on Tuesday, they can say all the rest.

Monday evening, Jack has his regular plans. Monday in the afternoon, Llewellyn goes to meet John for lunch, which necessitates stopping back by his theatre where he’s left his coat and his wallet. But then, he doesn’t mind getting a tour of the place before they eat.

Although, now that he’s not really John’s superior, and they’re going out on a purely social lunch, it does feel a little strange to be addressed as ‘Detective Watts’.

“You know, John… you’re not a constable working under me anymore, you don’t have to address me formally.” Llewellyn shrugs, peering around the empty stage. “So this is where you’re working now?”

“It’s not a big role like the last one.” John nods. “But it’s Shakespeare.”

“No small parts. I think Shakespeare is an improvement over the last one-- at least let us hope that all the murders will be part of the show and not… murders.”

“Would you come and see this one, when we open?”

“I’d be honored to be invited. So who are you?”

“Rosencrantz.”

“Well. After your performance, I’m sure the theatregoing ladies of Toronto, at the very least, will be longing for an entire play on the adventures of Rosencrantz alone.”

“Might be a boring play if I’m up there alone. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.”

He follows John down into the belly of the theatre, towards the dressing rooms. “Sounds very watchable.”

“I’m learning a lot. Our Horatio, Charlie-- he reminds me of you, sort of. Although… I guess you’re not very alike, really… But he’s always really helpful with career advice! Anyway, he weeps, real tears, every performance. And we’re only in rehearsals. I’ve asked him to teach me how and he’s told me I might find it very difficult, but he said we’d work on it, and I don’t need to be able to for this show, but it might help me in future.”

The dressing room John shows him has a row of mirrors, photographs tucked into the frames-- mostly of smiling sweethearts, one of someone’s whole family, another of a pair of plump little children, and one...

“Who’s this?” He stops at one, touching the corner of the picture. “Someone’s brother?”

Only it’s not, and he knows it’s not. It’s a young man, his smile broad, lying back on his elbows in the grass beside a bottle of wine. There’s something candid about it, and something intimate. 

“That’s Charlie’s beau.” John says, and then freezes. “Oh-- um, you won’t… tell anyone, will you?”

“My lips are sealed.” He nods.

“I know my father doesn’t approve of that sort of thing--”

“Mm. I’m aware, yes.”

“But Charlie’s just normal as anyone. I mean he doesn’t-- there’s nothing funny about him, except for that. He’s normal about things, no one feels strange sharing a dressing room with him or anything. And everyone knows and… I know it’s not exactly lawful, but it doesn’t hurt anyone. Detective Watts-- um, Llewellyn-- you really won’t… you won’t say anything about it?”

“I won’t.” He gives the picture another touch, can’t seem to catalog his own feelings, can’t seem to do anything about his racing heart. “It must be nice… to put a picture out, like everyone else.”

“Suppose so. I never thought about it. But he couldn’t in an office, could he? Put a picture of him out on a desk like men do with their wives...”

“No. No, he could not. Mm. I haven’t got a desk, myself… so I never much thought about it, either. I don’t like being tied down. To a desk, I mean, not-- well. Nothing… nothing against being tied down to a person, just like to keep moving when I’m working. So, no office, no desk. But I think it must be nice. And to have everyone…” He waves a hand. “For no one to mind it. I wouldn’t take that away from a man for the world. Even if he wasn’t a friend of yours.”

“Thanks.”

“You don’t have to thank me, for this. Besides… I don’t want to come to this show and see an understudy who can’t cry on cue.” He tries to smile, it feels like it comes off wrong. 

“Charlie hasn’t even got an understudy. He’s never been sick for a performance. I mean, I think someone else could if they had to, but…”

“But it’s a better show with him. Mm. I’m glad you’re getting an education in your craft here-- it feels like the start of a step up for you, even if it’s a smaller part to begin with.”

He hears about the rest over lunch-- Charlie may be an exceptional actor and a fine mentor, but John spends far more time talking about the show’s Ophelia, whose charms are extensive. He hasn’t got the nerve, out in public, to mention Jack, and yet… John had sounded so _unbothered_ , about his fellow actor. And he couldn’t bring Jack with him to an opening night, with other people who know him, but could he come back on another evening, could he bring Jack, introduce him as a friend and then if it was understood what he meant, it would be understood?

It’s a thought.

It’s a giddy, delirious, wonderful thought, and a terrifying and exhausting thought, and he arrives back at the stationhouse wanting nothing more than to settle himself into some unseen corner and re-learn how to breathe normally, how to have a human being’s heartbeat and not a hummingbird’s, to go over whatever work he might and speak to absolutely no one until Tuesday.

Detective Murdoch has other ideas.

“Ah! Detective Watts. I was hoping to speak with you.”

“You were? Why?”

“Oh. Uh… because my wife asked me to.” He says, somewhat thrown off. “Julia suggested to me that I should remind you that she had extended an open dinner invitation. She suggested that the invitation was for you and a lady friend?”

“Mm. I’m afraid we couldn’t.”

“I was… not under the impression… that you _had_ a lady friend. But I have been informed that you _do_ , and so I am reminding you that the invitation is not for a set date, and that if you couldn’t attend, say, this week, my wife would very much like for you to… find a time.” He spreads his hands. “Any time.”

“There’s not a good time, for both of us.”

“Ever?”

Llewellyn shrugs. 

“Surely you must have free time together some of the time? Or… if you wanted to come alone, I’m sure Julia would understand. Or if you wanted to bring… a friend. If four people is better for these things than three. I don’t really know, dinner parties are not my forte, but Julia insists on having you, and I would like my wife to be happy. And we get along well enough to survive one dinner party, I think.”

“... That’s not the issue. Someday-- please thank her for the invitation, it’s just… not a workable time. Thank you.”

  
He turns and walks out on the conversation, which he knows is rude and he likes Murdoch, on the whole, but he can’t… he _can’t_ . He can’t handle the invitations there’s no accepting, he can’t handle the world he doesn’t belong in, no matter how much friends might extend a hand. He can’t show up to a dinner party with Jack on his arm and make pleasant, ordinary chit-chat. He can’t brag about Jack’s cooking and his housekeeping, or wax poetic about his personal charms. He can’t turn and take his hand, and call him sweetheart, nor feel himself melt at _beloved_ or _lamb_. Whatever this world is, with dinner parties and couples’ friends, it’s not his. Not like this.


	13. Your Smile Like Home To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes things need to fall apart a little bit, just to be put back together better. 
> 
> It isn't easy, but it's worth it.
> 
> (if you are following me here from Good Omens, odds are you have been waiting for this chapter to happen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand a little missing scene side thing is here:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/23120419  
> because I have now more than once referenced off-screen bits I haven't written.
> 
> (and sorry this is up so late because I had to stop and write a separate snippet)

Monday had left him exhausted, but Tuesday gives Llewellyn something to cling to. At the end of the day, he has Jack waiting for him. He arrives on his doorstep, bottle of wine in one hand, bouquet of gardenias in the other, and Jack reaches for him from the other side of the open door, tugs him forward with a warm smile and brings him into their own private world at last.

“How was work?” He greets, his hand moving to Llewellyn’s hip as he takes the flowers, as he leans in to kiss his cheek. 

“It’s been all right.”

“Has it? You look tired...”

“Mm. Mostly. I’ve been… Work has been slow, for me, of late. Outside of a murder falling into my lap, it’s… I can’t help feeling like I’m being punished.” He admits, tucking himself in close, until his lips brush Jack’s neck. “Past insubordination to pay for. Nothing high profile, nothing very interesting… everyone working on one big case while I clean up petty thefts and vandalism. I’d hoped… I’d hoped I might have proven myself. I’d hoped… things would have gone back to normal by now. At first I thought it was just slow for everyone, that there just wasn’t anything serious in our jurisdiction, but it’s… definitely not that. I’m… still being frozen out.”

“And would that insubordination be… when we met?”

“Mm. I don’t regret it. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t be any better behaved. Knowing what I know? I might be worse. It’s not your fault, either way. There was nothing you asked me for that I wasn’t ready to give. I just… I wonder when it’s going to lift. I spend so much time on desk duty, without even having a desk, I-- I don’t _care_ about the glory or the commendation that comes with being placed on high profile cases, I don’t _care_ about whether my career advances, I don’t care about office politics, but I am wasted tracking down delinquents who write on walls, it seems I only have real work when there’s more than enough to go around. One kidnapping, not high profile, not difficult to bring to its conclusion. Everything else has been work a constable would be sent on. I didn’t mind it when things were slow for everyone but now I see the pattern, and-- it’s… frustrating. And it’s frustrating… I was invited to a dinner. I was told to bring a lady friend I don’t have. I… I can talk to George, he’s not exactly like us but he’s not exactly… _not_. And I think… I think if I introduced you to John-- he has another friend, in the theatre, and I… Shouldn’t that make me glad, and not even more petrified?”

“You can be both.”

“He asked me not to tell anyone, about his other friend. So, he wouldn’t tell anyone about me. But I… but I’m so used to loneliness. And then there’s everyone else. There’s everyone else, and maybe I shouldn’t have started… shouldn’t have come up with a story, shouldn’t have come up with a lady friend who people could want to meet or invite to dinner parties, but I didn’t think… No one used to invite me to things at all. I didn’t realize they would _start_.”

“Stand up straight.” Jack chides him gently. “While I get a vase. You’ll feel better if you aren’t doing that to your neck. I can’t fix people inviting you to dinner parties under the misapprehension that you’re heterosexual, but I can at least try to fix the state of you.”

He straightens, watches Jack get the vase and some water. Watches the way he adjusts the bouquet, the fond look he casts over the flowers. The smile that Jack turns his way, seeing him at least _attempting_ to correct his usual poor posture, seeing him deal with getting the wine open and breathing.

“There, isn’t that better?” Jack comes back to him, leaning up to kiss him, slow and lingering. He’s taller than Jack, by a fair enough bit, provided he does stand up straight, which is all right, but he _likes_ being able to rest against his shoulder, bury his face against his neck. “And thank you for the flowers. They’re lovely, and you’re sweet.”

“I thought-- the… floral note, of your cologne, I thought it was gardenia. And… maybe those would be more appreciated. Than something else.”

“I’d appreciate anything from you. But yes. Well… I like sunflowers as much, but they wouldn’t fit the vase, and they don’t smell as nice. The cologne is… a necessary little luxury, when your work leaves you smelling like blood.”

Llewellyn noses his way up towards Jack’s temple, wraps his arms around him and holds him close. “You smell fine to me.”

“I try to clean up after work. And I don’t think you smell very much of _me_ , over _dinner_.”

“Well, that smells fine to me, too. _That_ smells _incredible_...”

“I’m glad you think so. I had that stewing all day in the back, I had to take a cab home with it.”

“Should I have asked for something easier?”

“You should ask me for what you _want_ , beloved.” He nips at Llewellyn’s lower lip. “And let me worry about whether or not it’s _easy_. Do you only do easy things for me?”

“I would do _anything_ for you.” He dips Jack slightly, gives him a quick but fervent kiss. 

“Oh, sure.” Jack laughs, holding on tight even as he’s righted. “I’ll be sure to ask you for a favor if I get accused of murder again.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Or… I’ll try to avoid getting accused of murdering someone else, and you’ll try to avoid destroying your career.” He cups Llewellyn’s cheek, rubs gently over his jaw. “You are going to get through this. You are going to get another real case, and you are going to be recognized for your work. You won’t be punished forever.”

“If I was, it would still be worth it.” He leans forward, their foreheads touching, and he searches for the words he truly wants, finds them stuck. “It’s frustrating, but you… I’d do it all over again. I wouldn’t hesitate.”

“If he was serious about punishing you like that, you might have been demoted. You weren’t. You just have to… bear it a while longer. Show that you know how to keep in line-- that when you’re out of line, it’s a matter of principle, not a whim. And you will start getting real work again. You’re too good not to. I’ve seen that firsthand.” Jack says, allowing another moment of lingering, nuzzling into each other’s touch and breathing each other in deep. When he pulls back to meet Llewellyn’s gaze, he’s holding his face in both hands, thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones. “Wash up and help me set the table? Be a lamb?”

“You are my horizon.” Llewellyn blurts out. Can only worry for a half a moment that it doesn’t make sense, that he has failed after all to get his point across, before he sees the look to overtake Jack’s face, and then he’s being kissed, and _well_.

“Wash up, and help me set the table.” Jack repeats in a whisper, his voice wet and shaky, his arms so tight around Llewellyn that he doesn’t think he could do either, however willing he may be.

“Jack--”

“You’re an _incredibly_ strange man, and I love you. I love you for it. No one has ever… I mean, that’s the most…”

“Because I was afraid maybe-- maybe I didn’t make sense…”

“You _don’t_ , but that’s all right, I think neither do I. I think that’s beautiful. I mean… _we_ don’t make sense, nothing about us, but nothing could make me happier. No one’s ever made me the… the _kind_ of happy that you’ve made me. I don’t _want_ you to make sense, you don’t _have_ to, I feel like I understand you anyway.”

Jack kisses him again, before he lets him go. Takes his coat, his jacket, his hat, shoos him towards the sink. They move around each other, it’s quickly become so natural to, as they both wash up, as they get the table set, the wine poured, the roast served.

“How is your mother doing?” Llewellyn asks, when he finally manages to pause in his rapturous devouring of the meal before him.

“She’s finishing her painting.” Jack smiles. 

“That’s good. I think… it would be a shame not to do something that makes you happy, just because you fear you’ve come to it too late. I think… there’s so much a person could miss out on.” He meets Jack’s eyes and has to glance away. “Well. I’m glad to hear she’s doing well.”

“She is.” He says, and hesitates. “Someday… I’d like her to meet you. Even if… even if I can’t say what you are to me. I still want-- I want the people who are important to me to meet each other.”

The enormity of the idea is overwhelming. To be introduced, even as just a friend, to Jack’s mother… 

They hadn’t, when Christmas had come and gone. They had rather carefully avoided making a big deal out of any holidays. The relationship was too new then to be introduced on an _occasion_ , and maybe there wouldn’t have been a way to work introducing him as a friend, over a holiday. He doesn’t celebrate it himself, and even when he’d been growing up unaware of his Jewish heritage, childhood forgotten under the crushing weight of loss, they hadn’t really _done_ anything for it, so there was no emotional weight to the day at all on his end. He’d volunteered to work-- not that he’d had much to do-- and Jack had visited his mother just the way he always did, and the most remarkable thing about the weekend of for him had been the volume of geese sold compared to the rest of the year, and the notion of meeting Jack’s mother hadn’t come up, and Llewellyn hadn’t thought that it would. Not so soon, at least.

“If you don’t want to--”

“No! I-- I would, very much. I’ve never… had occasion to meet someone’s mother. Not even just… as a friend. It’s…”

“It’s a lot.” Jack nods, understanding. “Too soon?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I… I don’t know how to-- Meeting people is not my strongest suit, and I-- I mean… look at me.”

“I do. I am.” He smiles, foot sliding along Llewellyn’s calf beneath the table. More companionable than come-on. It doesn’t slide up particularly _high_. It’s just a point of contact as his hands are occupied with knife and fork, and he pops his next bite into his mouth and waits expectantly for whatever argument Llewellyn might make against his confidence.

“I don’t want to make a poor impression on your mother. And I don’t exactly-- I don’t--” His breath catches, and the fork in his hand clatters against his plate, which only makes him shakier, only makes it harder to breathe.

“It doesn’t have to be dinner.” Jack does reach out for him now, hand closing over his. “If… if we arranged for you to be nearby while I was out with her in town, I could introduce you in passing. Then… then at least she’d know-- she’d know you exist. She’d know… I consider you worth introducing.”

That doesn’t sound too bad, he supposes, but he’s already shaking over a hundred rapid-fire worst case scenarios, the mental image of faux pas after faux pas. Having her wonder what was _wrong_ with him, or worse, having her figure out more than Jack was prepared for. And then her no doubt asking Jack what was wrong with this strange man he’d brought-- and why had he thought he could bring a strange man to meet her, even if he’d been much _less_ strange than he is-- because it’s _something_ , he’s always known it was something, it’s always been a dozen somethings which don’t fit together into a single something, and that’s without counting the matter of his sexuality.

“It doesn’t have to be dinner.” Jack repeats, and he leans in, leans around, and Llewellyn knows he’s looking for him to turn and make eye contact and he _can’t_ , the idea of it is a jangled nerve, painful. Lovely as Jack’s eyes are, much as he adores him, he _can’t_ , and a fear claws its way up his throat, that this will be the thing that makes Jack realize he’s a mess, that he’s unlovable.

Jack takes his fork and sets it aside, massages his hand and doesn’t ask him to look him in the eye when he doesn’t, though. He simply works at the muscles and the tiny joints of Llewellyn’s right hand until it isn’t trembling. He still feels weak, like he couldn’t use it again if he tried now, and the shame of it is a white heat, he knows the feeling as it travels up along his wrist, forearm, it’s beyond his usual lack of coordination, and when is Jack going to decide he’s too much? A man who gets so upset over a simple invitation that he can’t even hold his fork?

“Llewellyn… I’m sorry.” Jack’s voice is soft, uncertain. “I… I shouldn’t have sprung the idea on you like this. When you’re struggling to recover your career right now… when it’s an enormous thing to ask a man for, I know it is. No matter how we couch it, that’s… I was… swept up. And I-- I’m so sorry.”

“You are?” He dares a glance up, though not to the level of Jack’s eyes. High enough to see the tight, worried frown.

“Of course I am. I’ve upset you.”

“I-- I was sorry. You made-- I asked for dinner, and you made this dinner, and I… spoiled it.”

“ _I_ spoiled it. I put too much on you. And I should have-- I always do this.” He squeezes Llewellyn’s hand gently. “I always do this. I’m always… too much.”

“ _I’m_ always too much.”

Jack lifts his hand at that, presses a firm kiss to the heel of it. 

“Oh.” He says.

“Oh.” Llewellyn echoes. There are things he thinks he should say, but he can’t form words, his mind is blank of them. 

“You brought me flowers, and you _told_ me how work has been, and I… I make the same mistakes every time. And that wasn’t… fair of me, because you’re-- Because I’ve… I’ve asked men, before. Who didn’t want… I’ve asked for a lot of things that haven’t been wanted of me, or with me. And I let myself get so caught up in knowing you were different, I didn’t think about how terrible the timing would be for you.”

“I’ve asked for a lot of things.” He nods. He still can’t put his own thoughts into order, it’s all a clash of competing images, most stressful, most worst case scenarios playing out for the mind’s eye, but he can pluck Jack’s words from the air, and use them if he can make them fit. And these certainly fit. “A _lot_ of things.”

“Have you? Really?” Jack kisses his hand again. “You haven’t seemed to… you’ve seemed so happy with whatever I’ve given you, when you’ve let yourself accept it.”

“ _I’m like this_.” He manages at last to drag the words forth. “I’m always like this, under… The real me is _this_. I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t apologize to me for being the man that I love.” Jack’s voice is quiet, but there is something resolute in it even where it trembles. “And please do not tell me that the real you isn’t worth loving. Was the man who brought me flowers an artifice? Was the man I made love to in that bed Thursday night? How about the man who walks at my side in the evening like he could single-handedly keep the world from touching me? Is he not real? Did you invent him? Did you invent the man who impressed my friends by reading from Plato in Greek? Was the man who comforted me in my hour of need imaginary? Was the man who risked his career because I asked for an hour alone any less a part of who you are than this? Because that man is real to me, and if this is a part of him, then this is also the man I love. I will not hear a word against him.”

He’s not sure how to bear this love. He’s never felt something like it. It eclipses all the kindnesses he’s ever been shown. Even when he had done his best to spell out every reason not to love him, he couldn’t put words to _this_ , the worst and most unlovable part of him, not fully. He could describe the periphery of it, the little things which would always make him odd, but not the heart of it, the knot of complicated weaknesses and sensitivities which could rob him of reason, reduce him to a child, crying and clumsy.

“You’re not too much.” He says, and wishes he could squeeze Jack’s hand back. His own twitches uselessly in Jack’s grip when he tries. “I’m just… _trying_.”

“I’ve always been. Other men, who’ve… Other men who have liked me well enough… never liked me well enough to choose me. If I asked for caution, if I asked for exclusivity… if I leveled an ultimatum, I always lost. If I asked to be important, I wound up alone. That’s not… that’s not someone else’s fault, for not wanting what I wanted. I knew I didn’t really fit in with that circle, with the casual sharing of love, but… I didn’t know anyone else who wanted what I did. Except for old men who’d already found it. I didn’t know… And I always did spoil things. Too many domesticities, too many invitations.”

“I love that about you.” Llewellyn shakes his head, manages something slightly more like holding Jack’s hand in return, if only for a brief and fluttering moment. “You haven’t… given up on me. You keep opening your home, until I can accept it. I’m grateful.”

“It’s never been beaten out of me. To want what other people get. They barely have to ask for it and it finds them. And they don’t _appreciate_ it. They don’t know what they have and they don’t appreciate it. If I could be-- with you, the way other people… I would never let a day go by without showing you how much you are to me. I would never let a day go by that I didn’t take care of you. If I could keep you every night and wake to you every morning I would never grow so used to you that I would not be grateful for you.”

“Jack…”

“Do I want too much?” He leans their heads together. “I’m sorry if I do. Maybe I should have warned you from the start.”

“No. No, you’re not too much. I just… I can’t change that I’m like this. I can’t control it all of the time. I could be just fine and then… then it’s all too much, to exist in the world, and I don’t know… I don’t know anyone else who’s _like_ this. When I can control it, then… I could call it the price of brilliance, if I was particularly disinclined to be humble. When I can’t, then I feel like I have more in common with a mental patient than anything else. I’m _sane_ , but it doesn’t feel it, when no one else is experiencing the world the way I experience it. When people look at me as if I’m _not_ , and there’s no explaining… Things are either too much or not enough, but it’s not _predictable_.”

“We’re a pair, then.” Jack sighs. “I don’t think either of us has ever had the love we’ve needed, before. I’ve always asked for too much, I don’t think you’ve ever asked for enough. Maybe it was a stroke of luck you found me. Maybe we… just figure out how to come out even. Could you eat a little more, or should I put this up for breakfast? I can turn what we’ve got left over into a hash.”

Just the _idea_ of dropping fork against plate and the sound it would make is painful. And the stress has made his stomach feel small.

“Breakfast sounds… good.”

“Come sit by the fire with me, then? Once I have everything put up.”

Llewellyn nods. He waits, while Jack puts the leftovers up for the morning, and then he lets himself be tugged to his feet. Jack pours the remainder of one wine glass into the other, carrying it in. They fold themselves into a single chair, with a little work-- Jack manages to tease a laugh out of him, as he arranges Llewellyn in his lap.

“Better?”

“Better. Maybe. I feel ridiculous.”

“You feel good to me.” Jack gropes his thigh, playful. Lets his hand slide back to give the side of his flank a little tap, before returning to simply hold onto his thigh again, warm and undemanding. “Thank you. For… letting me take care of you. It means a lot to me. I don’t… I don’t know if I can explain it.”

“Have other men… not let you?”

“Some don’t. Some… sometimes a man lets you come to his house and cook his dinners and fuss over him, and you know that if you go to a party together you’ll find him down someone else’s throat.” Jack shrugs, his tone light, but brittle. “But you let it go because he still lets you feel useful, for a while.”

“If I ever meet the man--”

“You won’t.” Jack cups his cheek. “You will not be meeting _any_ of the men who have ever treated me badly. I don’t… associate with any of them anymore, and if I did, I wouldn’t let them at you. There are good people in those circles, but… it’s difficult. Or it was for me.”

“If taking care of me is what makes you happy, now that you’ve seen the worst of it, then you’re welcome to me, Jack. It’s… not normally like that. But it does happen. That you haven’t run from me yet...”

“Taking care of you makes me happy. Cooking your meals makes me happy. Offering you a place in my home makes me happy. Hanging up your coat next to mine, and cleaning you up after we’ve made love, and working the knots out of your back, these things all make me very happy.”

Jack gathers him close, at that, his face buried in Llewellyn’s throat. For a long time, they simply hold onto each other, while the fire crackles nearby. They’ve spoken enough, at least for a good while, but the closeness is necessary. When Jack does emerge from his spot against Llewellyn’s throat, it’s to reach for the now-shared wine glass, to coax Llewellyn further out of his previous misery by asking him to describe the notes for him, to tell him what he knows about the soil and the weather and the grapes.

“How do you feel about ice cream?” He asks, when the glass is empty.

“I’m in favor, generally speaking. Why?”

“Because if you don’t feel up to eating ice cream very soon, then it’s just going to be cream.”

“... What?”

“Although I’m sure there’s still something we could do with a bowl full of cold, sweet cream. I do think it will be more enjoyable while it’s a little bit solid.”

“Yes, all right. You bought ice cream?”

“I thought it would be nice.” He shrugs. “I thought… I might-- feed it to you?”

“Oh.” Llewellyn blinks, face suddenly hot. He thinks he ought to not want that. After his breakdown at dinner, he ought to push back against the idea, he ought to want to reassert his basic ability to hold cutlery, at the very least. But the way Jack _looks_ at him when he asks…

He didn’t understand that look, at first. He didn’t understand that look for a long time. When Jack had first asked if he could feed him dessert, he’d only known it was something overwhelming. That it was the look Jack had watching him eat only moreso.

He understands the look now. He’s had enough opportunity to catalog it. It is the other look set on fire. It’s _want_ , not simply to take care of him, to make him happy, it has become unmistakeably carnal. There’s more meaning to it than he thinks he knows, but he wants to be favored with that look. More than anything, after the shame and the fear of breaking down in front of Jack before, he needs to feel wanted.

“We don’t have--”

“ _Yes_.”

They both scramble up from the chair at that, and Jack fetches the dish from his icebox, where he’d kept it as insulated as possible since picking it up. They wind up not back in the chair but down on the floor by the fire, facing each other. Breathless in a mutual anticipation as Jack lifts the spoon to his lips.

He sets the dish aside, after that first bite, slowly tugs at Llewellyn’s tie, undoes his collar before bringing him a second taste. 

“Have you done this before?” Llewellyn whispers, his hand moving to rest on Jack’s knee. 

“With someone else?” Jack shakes his head. “I could never bring myself to ask. But… no one else has… no one else _enjoys_ food, the way you do. You let yourself be… fully absorbed in your enjoyment of it. I have enjoyed feeding people-- I mean, not by hand, just-- providing food, making food, without feeling anything like this, more often than I’ve felt… _this_ , precisely. I enjoy seeing people enjoy food and it’s not like this. I couldn’t not ask, if there was any chance you wouldn’t turn and run.”

He keeps feeding Llewellyn even as he answers, one bite and then another. Leans in to kiss away a slight smear of vanilla ice cream from Llewellyn’s upper lip, and then to deepen that kiss even as he readies the next bite, and it’s…

Perfect.

Maybe it’s odd, but isn’t everything about him? This… this, though, he can bask in Jack’s attention, his desire, and it feels good, just knowing he’s wanted. Not only that, but that built into it is the reassurance that Jack adores him as he is, that he wouldn’t change him, that he _likes_ that he’s more enthusiastic than polite. Likes it a rather surprising amount, but it’s not as if Llewellyn is going to complain about how much Jack wants him. He’s not going to complain about being fed ice cream and having his throat kissed, his shirt unbuttoned bit by bit between each bite. He’s not going to complain because he is loved.

And… it feels good-- it feels _right_ \-- to coax Jack out of that tight-held nervousness, to make him wanton. Jack, with his experience and confidence, still needing Llewellyn to encourage him… he likes being able to give him that, being able to be something other than unversed. True, he _is_ yet largely unversed, but here is something he can be encouraging in. Here is one place where Jack’s experience and confidence don’t completely outstrip his own, a thing they can embark on together, where he can be the one to say his lover’s desires are not wrong. To get to have that? Is exhilarating.

“Are you going to have any?” He asks, head tilted back as Jack sucks a rosy mark to the surface of his throat, down where his shirt collar will hide it. 

“Maybe… but I’d rather you.” He groans, lets his teeth just scrape over sensitive skin. He pushes Llewellyn’s shirt from his shoulders, spreads kisses from one to the other before bringing him another bite. 

A single melting drop hits his skin, and Jack leans in, warm tongue soothing over the little shock of cold. 

“Are you sure… you won’t have more?” He asks, wills Jack to understand he means _like that_. He’s not good at subtlety, or nuance, or silent communication, but Jack meets his eyes and nods. Feeds him another bite and then pushes him to lie on his back.

“All right?” He asks, dish of the melted remains of the ice cream poised to be poured out.

“All right.” Llewellyn nods. The chill makes him squirm, but then there’s Jack’s mouth, the heat of it moving over his skin even when there can be no trace of the ice cream left. Jack’s mouth working up from his belly to his chest, Jack’s lips and teeth and tongue at one nipple, drawing noises out of him as he works it to a stiff peak, the sensitivity almost unbearable.

When Jack does lift his head from Llewellyn’s chest, it’s to look down at him with an overwhelming want.

“I want you to know… I want you to know you’re incredible.” He says, hand resting at Llewellyn’s waistband. “And I appreciate this, so much.”

They stay right there, by the fire, as Jack finishes undressing him, as he positions himself with Llewellyn’s legs thrown up over his shoulders so that he can swallow him down. And it’s bliss, it’s bliss. Bliss to be guided once more through giving Jack pleasure, bliss to lie on the rug as he’s washed and dried, feeling his limbs heavy, feeling the warmth of the fire against bare skin, feeling _Jack_ , hovering close by.

If he could have this… he could bear the bad parts.


	14. In The Kind of World Where We Belong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's difficult to balance caution with time spent in the closest thing to a home he's had in years. Especially now that he finds himself able to relax there.

The morning finds him in Jack’s arms, in Jack’s bed, though he doesn’t remember having moved there. He remembers nothing beyond feeling fuzzy and floating as Jack kissed him before the fire. It’s not an unpleasant kind of disorienting, to find himself in his bed instead of on his floor.

“Whatever you did to me last night, I think I fell asleep before I got to bed.” He groans, wriggling slightly, trying to put himself more firmly up against Jack’s front. 

“You were gone before I got started.” Jack chuckles, rocking his hips against Llewellyn’s backside, just a little. More a tease than a declaration of intent, but thrilling nonetheless. Thrilling, every time he remembers how he’s wanted. “You… enjoyed that. I-- I thought… even if it was just something you would do for me-- but…”

“I enjoyed that. The way you make me feel...” He sighs. One of Jack’s hands is roaming over his chest, and he catches it, laces their fingers together.”I wish I didn’t have to go to work. For all the good I’ll do there… I should stay here. And let you love me.”

“Oh, no.” Jack rolls them over, pinning Llewellyn to the bed and kissing a line down the back of his neck, from his hairline down to just between his shoulderblades. “I am not getting you into any _more_ trouble with your inspector. No matter _how_ tempting. I’m making breakfast, you’re getting cleaned up and dressed.”

“Nope. I’m never getting dressed again.”

Jack snorts, moving off of him, and giving his backside a gentle smack on the way. “If you want breakfast, you’ll get dressed.”

“Taking advantage of my weaknesses… you’re an _awful_ beast.” He smiles, hugging Jack’s pillow, breathing in the scent of it a moment before he can bear to drag himself out of bed.

“And you’re a lamb.” Jack, now in his dressing gown, comes close enough to kiss his cheek, before moving to the kitchen area. 

Llewellyn gets himself cleaned up and presentable, before he has to start hunting for his clothing. Someday, maybe, they would learn not to fling half of it across the room… but he thinks the abandon of the moment is worth a little hide and seek come morning. 

His shirt, however… is completely unwearable. It’s missing two buttons he has no time to hunt for, is wrinkled, stained, sweat through… 

“ _Jack_?”

“Yes, lamb?” Jack calls from the stove-- the aroma is already starting to fill the space, and while it’s very pleasant, it’s not quite enough to distract from the problem at hand.

“Did you use my shirt to wipe something up last night?”

“Oh. You didn’t bring another one this time?”

“I did not.”

“Damn…” He sighs. “Take one of mine. I’ll get that laundered for you. And I’ll be more careful next time.”

“One of yours?”

“Any one you like. Just hurry up so I can get you fed.”

He doesn’t hurry up, can’t hurry up, when it comes to the shirt. He takes his time slipping into it, lingering over the buttons. Everything else he speeds through, but he takes his time with that. There is a curious pleasure in it which must be savored, that he should find himself wearing Jack’s shirt. 

Granted, the sleeves are a little shorter than his own, but all he has to do is not garter them and there should still be a very _slight_ break past the cuffs of his jacket.

When he sits down at the table, Jack sets a plate and a cup of coffee in front of him, bending over him to kiss his forehead. 

“You look nice.” He reaches in to straighten his tie for him. The style isn’t quite right, for the borrowed shirt, it doesn’t quite suit anything but a stand collar, but with a little adjusting, it’s serviceable enough-- and Llewellyn enjoys the attention that comes with having it adjusted.

“So do you.”

“I’m wearing my bathrobe.”

“Oh, I know.” He reaches up, tugging at the open vee of it to expose just a little more chest. “Believe me.”

“Eat your breakfast.” Jack bats his hand away, grinning. “You have work.”

“Mm, I have to go in, I won’t be doing any work. I don’t think anyone would notice if I didn’t come in before noon.”

“Insatiable.” He tuts, sitting down with his own breakfast. “You could come back, tonight. If you want… anything. Come with a change of clothes? Or… if you don’t want to stay again so soon, you can just come by. I can still make a brief visit worth your while.”

“I might… I might. What would we do tonight, if I did?” He asks, before taking a bite. Glad now to have a fuller understanding of Jack’s proclivities, as it saves him the trouble of having to try to do so demurely or attractively. 

Jack looks him over, from over the rim of his coffee cup, the kind of look that promises. “There… there are things we haven’t done, if you wanted to try something new. But we could also do anything you’ve liked. Dinner. Dancing. And… whatever else you like.”

“Well… I’ll come over. And-- we’ll see where the evening takes us?”

It’s enough of a promise for now-- especially where more of one might prove distracting. He finishes his breakfast, praising Jack soundly by the time he’s through, and he holds on long enough for Jack to send him off with another carefully-wrapped sandwich, with a warm kiss by the door before he can open it.

“Good luck with work.” Jack sighs, hand at his cheek. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.” He slips a hand inside Jack’s robe, rubbing a gentle couple of circles over his heart. “I can hardly stand to be away from you. Mm-- if you _do_ decide to get mixed up in another murder investigation, wait until I’m out of hot water with the inspector, I’d hate for you to go to the trouble only for me to be busy dealing with some routine misdemeanor, we wouldn’t even get to see each other.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. If I got mixed up with another murder investigation just to get to see you during work hours, I’d be very disappointed if you weren’t on the case.” He laughs. “It would be an awful lot of fuss just to have another man put me in handcuffs.”

“Oh, other men definitely aren’t allowed to do that.”

There’s something he’s definitely missing, in the look Jack gives him, before he kisses him one last time and sends him out the door, but it’s something he shall have to unravel at a later date. Or… perhaps just late this evening.

Work is… as it has been. He arrives at the stationhouse to find himself once more saddled with busywork. Where before, he had endeavored to find the good in it-- chiefly, that a lack of more serious crime surely meant good things for the city on the whole-- he now finds it disheartening. The serious crimes are still out there in as great a number as they ever were, he’s just still barred from working them.

“Detective Watts.” George greets-- George, late from his own contributions to a major case, not that he can find it in him to be jealous of the man. “Did you get a haircut?”

“... I’m wearing a hat.” His brow furrows. 

“Well, did you get a haircut under the hat, then?”

“... No, I did not.”

“Huh.” George shrugs and turns to his typewriter. “Well, whatever you’ve done, then.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

Which is the end of that, or so he thinks. Until…

“Is that a new tie?”

“It is, in fact, the tie I was wearing yesterday.” He stares at Higgins, scratching idly at his neck.

They can’t-- they can’t _possibly_ \-- be able to look at him and know, what he’d done the night before. He has it on Jack’s assurances that it’s not the sort of thing you can tell. Furthermore, any spring which last night may have put in his step, the morning of being handed a great, fat nothing to do all day has quashed.

He tries not to let himself grow paranoid over it, but it’s not easy to remain calm. Clearly there is something about his appearance which invites scrutiny, even if the root cause is as yet a mystery. Clearly there is something, there is some _thing_ , that they all look at him and see, some small yet vital difference between the Llewellyn Watts of yesterday, and the Llewellyn Watts of today. The only change he can think of himself… is that he had the previous night discovered something, with Jack. Something beyond only making love-- if he could call making love ‘only’, when it has been anything but so far-- something beyond all the other little ways of taking care, something… both those things at once, intense and odd and momentous. He had come out of his little breakdown reborn, made beautiful and glorious and wanton, he had been put back together again, and in the repairing he had been made better than he was. He had… to be far blunter and less poetic, he had had a sexual experience of such divine intensity that he’d literally blacked out, must have done, and not registered the move to Jack’s bed even though he must have at least helped to get himself there.

Is it visible in him? _How_? And surely no one can tell he was with a man, because the questions are polite, the change in him viewed positively, but they _can_ see it, George and Higgins both, and if that’s the case...

“Watts-- did you get a shave this morning?”

“ _Clearly_ I haven’t.” He says, before he can remind himself that he is keeping his head down, playing by the rules, and proving that he had crossed the lines he’d crossed as a matter of principle and necessity and not mere recklessness-- and that getting testy with his inspector is no way to regain whatever esteem he’d lost.

“All right, steady on, sunshine.” Brackenreid glares at him, but it’s the usual sort of glare, not something that speaks of further punishment in the offing. Just an ordinary ‘get back to work and don’t be a smart-arse’ glare, which he can deal with, or could deal with, if he had any work to get back to.

And, not a glare which speaks to suspicion, which is something, but he doesn’t like the idea, after everything, that Inspector Brackenreid can _tell_. Even if he can’t tell what it is he tells, that he knows somehow. If it was only George who could spot whatever lingering remnant of Jack’s love sits on him like a spotlight, he could bear up under it happily enough. He could tell him in confidence that he was in a good mood that morning after a beautiful night before, though he would not go so far as to detail that night and all its discoveries. Well… the one discovery, that Jack could see the worst of him, even worse than the last little breakdown, and love him all the more for his vulnerabilities. Perhaps he could tell George that, it would be nice to tell someone. But as for that other, intimate discovery, he can’t imagine talking about that with anyone. 

But if Brackenreid knew? His career would be in jeopardy just for associating with the man he’d released from the cells without authorization, let alone… let alone the months of pure soaring bliss. And it has technically been months, now, though they have not been intimate all that time. Months since he has been finding excuses to go by Jack’s work, his home, points in between. It was barely November when they met, and it had taken nearly the whole of that month to cross that final threshold into physical intimacy, but they had known the trajectory from the start. Even as he’d said he wasn’t there to ask Jack for anything… the pull between them had been inescapable, hadn’t it? And now, ten days into January. That makes it roughly one month of physical bliss, but more than two of the sheer happiness of _knowing_ Jack. Happiness which he cannot ask others to share in, in even the most casual of ways. 

He just wishes he understood how it was suddenly so visible, and whether there was any hiding it. If he could bear the degree of hiding.

“Ah.” Murdoch point at him, and he braces himself-- as much as he thinks it is possible to brace himself, against what must be coming. “Detective Watts. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a club collar.”

“... What?”

“I’ve never seen you in a club collar?”

“Oh. Yes. Well, yes, I just thought it was… time for a-- Thought I’d update, the, uh… wardrobe. Try something new. Not sure it was successful, not sure I would… continue the experiment.”

Murdoch narrows his eyes slightly. It is _not_ a new shirt, though it’s in good enough repair that he hopes no one else would notice that. But Murdoch doesn’t challenge him on the matter.

“Takes a different style of tie.” He nods, and that’s that.

Is that all it had been, is that all anyone had noticed? That he wore a different style of collar? And no one quite hit on that but… but that’s it?

Though, the shirt seems to be all the evidence George needs to draw his conclusions, judging by the somewhat broad conspiratorial smile he shoots him.

“Sir, am I to take it you called on your Miss Smythe last night?” He goes on to ask, when Murdoch and Brackenreid have both moved on to other business-- business which Llewellyn imagines he will not be called in for, whatever the level of import.

“Yes, George.” His answer comes out tight, anxious even with the veneer of heterosexual respectability that ‘Miss Smythe’ affords him.

“And… am I to take it, ah…?” He indicates the shirt collar, as subtly as it is probably possible to, which is to say, not entirely so.

“Yes, George.” He repeats, hissing it out this time before George can say any more, can gesture further. Higgins is at least away from his desk to get water, and perhaps he would not have caught on if he hadn’t been, but it hardly feels like the time and place just the same.

“Oh, I think that’s nice, Sir.” George smiles. He goes from entirely cheerful to wistful, shifting in his seat-- and doing his level best to keep staring at his typewriter, as Higgins rejoins them, lest he give anything away. “I mean, is it nice? It seems like it would be.”

“Yes, George.” Llewellyn pats his arm. “It is. It’s… we had a very pleasant evening.”

“That’s good, then.”

“Oh, your lady friend?” Higgins leans forward. “When do the rest of us get to see her?”

“Oh, now, Henry--” George starts. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? You’ve already met her, I’m a married man so there’s no worrying about my stealing her--”

“That _definitely_ wasn’t a worry.”

“She works. So… she wouldn’t really be free, to… drop by and see me here.”

“Oh, well, that’s a shame.”

“Mm, yes. Well.”

“Do you have a picture of her?” Higgins presses. “I could at least know what to picture when George talks about having met her.”

“Well now ‘met’ is a strong word, it’s only because she lives near-- because I was on a case in the building, not because I was introduced. It’s nothing to be jealous over.”

“I didn’t say I was jealous, I just think it would be nice to be in the loop.”

“I’m not sure Detective Watts even _has_ a picture of her, the relationship is so new and all.” George argues, just as Llewellyn opens his mouth.

“It’s not really the sort of photograph one passes around.” He says, immediately regretting it at the looks on their faces-- Higgins’ utter _delight_ at the tidbit, George’s climbing eyebrows and dangling jaw. “That is… ah…”

“Oh, _really_ , Sir-- it isn’t--?”

“No, not like that.” He shakes his head emphatically. “It’s not what you think, it’s-- he-- _here’s_ the, the truth of it, it’s not-- she’s-- bathing costume!”

“Ah.” Higgins nods. “And you can see her calves. Don’t worry, I completely understand.”

“ _Sir_.” George says, in a reproachful tone he takes to mean ‘that wouldn’t happen to be the photograph which disappeared from evidence some time ago?’-- and, it isn’t, but he can’t exactly defend himself on the point. Then again, George might not actually know about the photograph which he’d taken out of evidence, and might mean ‘it’s rather dangerous of you keeping an intimate photograph of a man and I do hope you’re being safe about it and keeping it concealed from your landlady’. Which is fair, but he can hardly reassure him on that point, either.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, duty calls.” He stands and exits. Duty very much does not, but what are his options? 

He does what he can, despite the crushing boredom of his current workload. He tries to bear up under it well. He listens to the memory of Jack’s voice, telling him this would pass, that his work would be restored to him in time. He does not, through sheer force of will, slip off during the middle of his day to visit him when they have a rendezvous planned for the evening. He thinks about it, while he’s doing nothing very useful. He thinks about the little back office of the butcher shop, and two chairs pulled up to one desk, knees crowded together, a shared lunch. But he already has the lunch which Jack had sent him off with. He can take some comfort in eating that, out of doors, away from any of the stresses of life. 

He sits up straight, while he eats, which feels uncomfortable even as some of the tension and strain melts away. He’s not sure he’ll ever feel comfortable or natural just being… upright. He feels like there’s too much of him and he hasn’t got anywhere to keep himself, sometimes, he feels too much in the open. A part of him is waiting to be… bothered, maybe. Attacked, maybe. Too big a part of him expects it at times when the instinct is counterproductive. And yet, it’s the sort of thing where one only needs to be right once…

A little time to himself serves as a balm of sorts, at least. Not a perfect one, but it keeps him from getting snappish with anyone, it keeps the paranoia from mounting when he thinks about what people might see and infer in him. And given the lack of work waiting for him at the stationhouse, a stroll in the open air doesn’t hurt. It gives him opportunity to offer a hand to constables on patrol, not that there’s much use there, either, but it’s a break from useless busywork indoors, and it makes him a more agreeable man when he does arrive back at the stationhouse, one better able to prove that he can mind his inspector-- well, to some degree. And given he hasn’t been assigned any real work, no one asks about where he’s _been_.

If some time alone to stretch his legs had been a minor balm, to head home to Jack at day’s end is… an unprecedented sweetness, even with the ever-present caution, the lingering fear. That this could be his life, even if it cannot be every night, even if it cannot always be all night, how many more nights before he is accustomed to it? How many weeks, how many months? Will he never truly feel as though this is an ordinary happiness which he deserves? Will he never come to expect it?

Jack answers the door in his shirtsleeves, and that too is how it always is, how it has been these past months, but he still isn’t accustomed to seeing him so, relaxed and warm and welcoming with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, his kitchenette warm and his fireplace crackling.

“You are a welcome sight.” He sighs, and lets Jack guide him in. 

“Long day?”

“Dull day.” With the door closed, he captures Jack’s hand, brings it to his lips. He half longs to tell him, that he’d-- what? That he’d sat up straight during his lunch break, that he’d tried? Just so Jack will be… proud of him? He’d spent so much of his life certain he needed no one else’s esteem, only his own knowledge that he did good work to the best of his ability.

The voice in the back of his head which asks him if he hadn’t _needed_ it, or simply hadn’t _had_ it sounds suspiciously like Doctor Ogden. 

“I can remedy that.” Jack smiles, keeps hold of Llewellyn’s hand so that he can drag him to come and sit by the fire. So that they can once more fold into the same space, Jack’s lap a home.

The firelight flatters him, it makes him golden. Llewellyn’s fingertips travel light over his face, tracing over his freckles. His eyes are dark, like the heart of a lake, like the sea wild in winter. Like _want_.

“Already my day is looking up.” He leans in against Jack’s chest, leans up to pepper kisses everywhere he’s touched. Jack’s hands sweep up his sides, up beneath his jacket. They undo the buttons of his waistcoat to get beneath that, too. Strong hands, touch firm, soothing and inflaming all at once. “And how was your day?”

“My day was fine. Did some smoking, had some wild game come in to be broken down, tomorrow there’ll be sausage to be made, and I’ll want to stock some prepared things, but… the shop is good. And here at home, I have a capon roasting for two, and I picked up a nice loaf of bread, and… I got a recommendation on a bottle of wine. You can let me know if it’s a good choice.”

Jack takes his chin in a gentle grip, leading him in for a deeper kiss, so easy to melt into. Jack strokes his back, his chest, soothes him further into a pleasant and cozy lull.

And, thus soothed, some subjects feel easier to broach. 

“Jack?” Llewellyn asks, toying with the front of his hair-- once slicked neatly back, now ruffled somewhat free. “You’d said… there are things we haven’t done, that we might try? Are there any things we haven’t done that you like?”

“Mm, probably not tonight.” Jack says, but he’s palming Llewellyn’s ass now, idly feeling him up. “But there are some. Not everyone likes everything… and it takes a little work to… there’s preparations to worry about, if you wanted to… if you were interested in penetration. If you’re not, I am not unfulfilled.” 

At that, his other hand comes up to gently touch Llewellyn’s hair in return. Blunt, well-scrubbed nails scratch gently at his scalp, making him tingle. Or… possibly that feeling has more to do with the thought of being penetrated. Which he had wondered about the practical side of, but Jack makes it sound as if the practicals are not difficult conceptually, only work to get through, and he’s not put off by work.

“What’s it like?” He breathes, leaning in.

“Personal experience varies. I’ve tried it… both ways. Both ways can be good.” Jack nuzzles at his cheek, kisses at his jaw. “You can think it over a while, I’d like to-- if you want to try it, I’d like us to have some _time_ at our disposal. A night when you can stay. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it.”

“You have?”

“Yes. Thought about the way you would feel, how you would sound, under me. Once or twice, I thought about you, seated in my lap…”

“Seated… with-- you inside me?” He’s not entirely sure what to imagine, with this brand new scenario, but the images he comes up with, he likes. The heat that floods him at the thought. The idea of Jack, inside him, he thinks about the spark which had lit his every nerve, when it had just been friction, Jack’s body pressing his down against the bed, when the hand that had slipped beneath him to help him along had felt secondary to the sensation of being so close… It would be even more than that. 

“If you wanted to. It would be a shame, with thighs like yours, not to get to see them at work...”

“I think… I’d rather be under you. But I-- I do want it.”

Jack’s arms wind around him tight, Jack’s lips travel lower, from stubbled jaw down to as much throat as he can get to. “Soon, then. When we can arrange a weekend? When I can give you the time you deserve?”

“I’d say this weekend, but I’m afraid it’s too soon, too much… the odds of getting caught…”

“Give me some time to try and arrange something safer. Considering the sounds I’d like to get out of you… my room is not the place. But I have an idea. If you can wait a little while more.”

“I think it’s for the best.” He says slowly. “But I want you. I want to. I want to be…”

“Under me?”

“Yes.”

“You’re overdressed. And I have dinner to check on. But… Soon, beloved?”

Llewellyn hums, enjoying the comfort of Jack’s embrace just a moment longer before he leaves his lap, hangs up his things. 

They dine, and they dance, when Jack’s neighbor’s violin once more intrudes upon the silence of the evening, a pleasant diversion. They trade long kisses, soft whispers, the kind of night which is familiar and yet never familiar enough. 

And, when Jack sees him off, it’s with a borrowed scarf he wraps around his neck.

“Why don’t you have a scarf of your own?” He teases, tucking the ends into Llewellyn’s coat.

“Because then I wouldn’t get to borrow this one.” Llewellyn kisses him. “And I wouldn’t get to return it to you.”

“That’s a good point. All right, stay warm, stay safe. Bring back my scarf.”

“I will.” He promises, enjoying the last few lingering touches before he’ll be on the wrong side of the door.


	15. Everyone Sings Hallelujah, When My Boy Walks Down the Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The joy, the freedom, and the absolute mortification of having friends who know you.

Llewellyn takes Jack’s scarf, as is his usual custom, during a reasonable lunch hour. He arrives before Jack has closed up for lunch, as he’s seeing off a couple customers.

As soon as they’re out the door, he turns the sign, bounding forward to meet Jack.

“Jack.”

“Llew--”

“Are you free?”

“Not quite. Not yet.” He jerks his head towards the shelves, the area blocked off from view beyond, and motions to Llewellyn to be quiet. One last lingering customer, then, and Jack keeps his voice down. “Aldous has roped me into lunch again, which is just as well since I have a favor to ask him, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind your coming along.”

“Good.” He untucks the ends of Jack’s scarf from within his coat. “I have something of yours.”

“Hold onto it for me for a minute.” Jack’s eyes travel over him, warm, lingering here and there on the places he does not touch, not yet. “I’ve got to get Missus Brackenreid taken care of and then we can go.”

Mrs. Brackenreid… he nods, drawing back to leave a little respectable distance between them. Pretends to occupy himself looking at a variety of cured sausages while casting surreptitious looks Jack’s way, as he returns to his place behind the counter to wait on Mrs. Brackenreid.

“Detective Watts.” She greets, coming around the shelves. “I thought that was you.”

“Oh-- yes. Small world. I, ah, saw John recently.” He nods, shoving his hands down into his pockets. “Seems things are going well for him. The, ah, career. And everything.”

“Thomas is very proud of him.” She says. “It’ll just be nice for it to be a normal play where nothing goes wrong… I just don’t know what I’m going to do with him if there’s another-- I mean, trouble like there was on that last show, when this was supposed to be safe. Well! _Safe_ , I mean it’s not very steady, is it? But I would at least expect him not to be shot at!”

“I’m sure.” He says, and there’s a touch of returning guilt. He’s not sure he’ll ever shake it entirely, the thought that he’s rightly to blame for a painful recovery and the loss of a career. But… then, if John is happier with his new career, could he try to forgive himself?

“Well, I’ll finish up, you must be using your lunch to run your errands.”

“Oh-- yes. That. Exactly. Not that there’s any rush, but… yes.”

She look at him a moment, as if looking _for_ something, only to discount it with a shake of the head and a politely, pleasantly vacant smile, before she turns to approach the counter and to let Jack wrap up their business. 

Jack disappears into the back, once he’s seen her off, and he emerges sans apron, rolling his sleeves down and getting his cuffs buttoned into place. Llewellyn gets his jacket from the hook for him, holds it out, and then helps him into his overcoat likewise. Jack takes his scarf then, giving one end a slow tug, it leaves Llewellyn’s neck like a caress.

And, as he had the first time, Jack buries his nose in it and inhales, before he wraps it around his own neck. He does so with even less restraint than he’d needed to employ that first time, he sighs openly into it, holds it to his face a long moment.

“It smells like you.” He slips his hand into Llewellyn’s, if only for a moment. 

“You’d said, after the first time you lent it to me. I’ve started wearing cologne more often, just to… linger, for you.”

“I like having you linger. It always feels like it keeps me just a little warmer, when you do.”

“Jack…” He rests a hand at his waist, only a moment. The shades have yet to be drawn, but they’re back from the windows, obscured by hanging meats and displays on shelves and tables from all sides. Not so obscured that he could kiss him, hold him, even touch him for too long, but enough to allow a little closeness before Jack does pull away and lower the shades.

“Lunch? It’s a nice, quiet little place.”

“If I won’t be intruding.”

“Aldous likes you. You won’t be.”

“Then I’d like that.” He smiles.

The walk there is pleasant-- the street is crowded enough as people navigate errands and lunches that they have every excuse to walk pressed close. The day is brisk enough that Jack has enough excuse, as well, to bury his nose down into his scarf every now and then. He seems almost loath to hang it up with their coats and hats when they do reach the restaurant, where they’re saved from having to request a larger table by the presence of Glen Scott, he and Germaine already waiting at a table for four.

“Detective Watts, this is an unexpected pleasure.” Germaine greets, rising. Scott merely nods to them from his seat.

“I was lucky enough to be passing by the area.”

“Oh, yes, _luck_ , I’m sure that’s it. Or something very like it. Well do take a seat.”

Llewellyn does, looking over the menu as Jack and Germaine lead the opening chit-chat-- the ironing out of book club related details among general pleasantries, before they order.

“And… how has your other problem gone?” Jack asks.

“Much the same.” Germaine’s smile is tight, his fingertips tap just once, twice, against the neat white tablecloth. “Entirely the same, in fact. As the last time we spoke.”

“Aldous--” Jack tuts.

“You know the position I’m in. And you know the position… And this is hardly the time, thank you very much.”

Jack holds up his hands. “You could put the offer out there and you never know, but all right. Glen, how have you been?”

“Better.”

“Is the new position working out for you?” Llewellyn asks, leaning forward. 

“It is. It’s… not as satisfying, but I’m learning to like it. I’m still thinking very seriously about taking a room that puts me closer to work.”

“It doesn’t even have a private bath.” Germaine says, scandalized. “I’m sure it’s very convenient and very comfortable up until you need anything outside your bedroom, but could you really live without a private bath?”

“I always used to.” Scott smiles at that. “It’s not so bad. It’s just at the end of the hall and it’s not that many people…”

“I feel myself take pale just to _think_ of it! Some support, gentlemen, please.”

“My boarding house has shared baths.” Llewellyn shrugs. Though… he has come to appreciate Jack having a private one. He finds it much easier to relax-- even hurrying through a morning routine is more pleasant when there’s only ever Jack waiting on the other side of the door. And… the odd occasion where they’re both on the same side of the door, crowded at the sink, when he can watch Jack shave as he brushes his teeth...

“I couldn’t give up having my own.” Jack says, slants him a little smile that makes him think he might be picturing the same sort of morning, which they haven’t had enough of, which he sometimes thinks wistfully of when he’s hurrying through another morning at his own boarding house.

“Quite so. The only time I want to _hear_ the words ‘shared bath’ is if I’m sharing one with a charming and lissome blond.”

“Do you have one lined up?” Scott laughs. “I won’t cramp you, if you’re trying to move one in.”

“Oh-- no. No, of course not. No, I’d never be able to enjoy it, thinking of you waiting in some drafty hallway just to brush your teeth at night, like an animal. Besides, there really isn’t anyone… _lined up_ , for me.” Germaine straightens up his already-straight cutlery, adjusts his water glass imperceptibly.

“Well, I’m working again-- all you have to do is say the word, the room on offer now is convenient and it’s cheap, I could be there by Monday.”

“Not with a _shared bath_ , Glen. Really.”

“Oh-- were you two…?” Llewellyn gestures between them.

“A temporary situation.” Scott says quickly. “When I didn’t know if I’d get work again before rent came due at my old place.”

“I’m not kicking you out just because you’ve found it.” Germaine adds. “I have the spare room. I have the spare _bath_. Besides… it’s nice to have someone to play cards with of an evening. Or it would be, if I could ever manage to win a hand... Still, I haven’t given up on the possibility.”

“Speaking of room--” Jack starts, falling silent when a soup course arrives, and only starting up again once they’re alone. Or, as alone as a restaurant allows for. “Speaking of room, how many people could you put up at yours, Aldous?”

“Oh, quite a few if things were… shuffled around, and people didn’t mind sharing. More, if I had to put people up on couches. A couple of Christmases ago I think I had to sleep ten people-- myself _not_ included-- when my party was snowed in. Mixed company, too.” He rolls his eyes heavenward. “It makes things so much more complicated once ladies are involved, if it was all gentlemen I could have put two in every bed, two more on couches, and myself on the chaise in the office, and no trouble whatsoever. Why do you ask?”

“Just… wondering, about the book club, and if we all wanted to try and… make a weekend of it sometime. Actually-- No. Not that. I was wondering… You’re set back from your neighbors.” He takes a deep breath, face going pink, and Llewellyn catches up right along with Aldous Germaine, to what Jack is really asking. Which, on the one hand, is terribly embarrassing to him as well, and yet… well, who else could they go to? They can’t go to a hotel together. A hotel would be just as much risk as the boarding house, and his place is even riskier than Jack’s, his room smaller, his walls thinner, his bed smaller, and his bath very much shared. He hadn’t considered that Jack might ask to use a friend’s guest room, but what else is there for men like them? What do they have, beyond protecting each other-- and turning to each other for protection?

Germaine nods. “Walls a little thin at your place?”

“A little. And… it’s a boarding house. I’m not supposed to keep guests to begin with, we’re risking enough as it is. I was hoping to arrange a favor for a favor.”

“The attic bedroom has a bit more privacy, though in winter--”

“Privacy is all I really care about. And the use of a bathtub would be helpful. Name your price.”

“My price… Dinner, for the four of us, one game of cards-- on the off chance that I have better luck with twice as many people at the table-- and then I think Glen and I can stay downstairs with some music on to give you a bit of privacy _without_ banishing you to the attic. Unless you expect to be very loud for very long.”

“No. Thank you, Aldous.” Jack nods, entirely red-faced-- and Llewellyn has the feeling they match. “Not… no, not-- unreasonably so. The normal amount. It’s just… nowhere is _safe_ for us, to… I couldn’t think of anywhere else to _go_.”

“I’m flattered you thought of me, then.”

“Well… you’ve got the most space. I’d probably die on the spot if I tried to ask Stephen, neither Reed nor Antony would let me live it down...”

“What makes you think I would?”

“Aldous, I know far too much for _you_ to tease me now.”

“Touche.” He nods. “Please leave my skeletons in their closets, and you may have free run of my house.”

“I might rattle one or two.”

“Jack Walker, I do still know where a few bodies are buried myself, and I shall repeat certain things to certain persons if you start.”

“I don’t have any secrets.” Jack smiles. Beneath the table, he gives Llewellyn’s knee a brief squeeze.

“Wait.” Scott leans forward. “ _You_ know who Gloria is.”

“He doesn’t!” Germaine says quickly.

“I do.” Jack leans back in his chair.

“I’m lost.” Llewellyn says.

“The secret object of Aldous’ affections, cryptically nicknamed. We were out for drinks with Reed and some others--” Scott begins.

“Mixed company.” Aldous sighs. “Some of whom no doubt actually believed my affections to be engaged by a _woman_ named Gloria.”

“And when it got down to the three of us at the end of the night, Reed was trying to learn who--”

“Even though he knows _exactly_ why he can’t be trusted with sensitive information!”

“-- And he offered me an _exorbitant_ amount of money to ‘put my detective skills to good use’.” Scott laughs. 

“Which, like a true gentleman, he declined.”

“Though ‘blond’ and ‘lissome’ seem likely adjectives to apply to the ‘lady’ in question, now. Do I know ‘Gloria’?” Scott asks Jack.

“I’m afraid I cannot answer that question.” He says placidly. “... at this time.”

“Jack, please.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to say anything. And I do appreciate your being a help, I really wouldn’t have been able to go anywhere else, with this.”

“Not at _all_ , old thing, happy to do it. Happy to have more company. Really I am. Any time you need a quiet room in a house with no too-near neighbors, the price is dinner and a conversation.”

“It really is just a one-time favor. I mean-- we’re… _capable_ of being quiet at my place.” Jack goes red again-- falls silent again as the waiter returns to their table with entrees. “It’s just… once, to not… to not.”

“I know. And, as I’ve said, really-- any time.”

The conversation changes, mercifully-- though Llewellyn still feels adrift in it, and mostly listens as the others talk. He mostly knows the men they mention as being the gentlemen of the book club, or other acquaintances of Germaine’s who he thinks he might recognize from the philately association, whether or not he’s imagining the right person. There are a couple of names mentioned which he does not know, and when one comes up Jack whispers that he might introduce him at some point, and when another is, Jack shakes his head, his opinion clear in his expression, even as closed and subtle as it is. It’s a surprise when Germaine brings up a name he knows _well_.

“George? He’s-- yes, doing quite well.” He nods. “I would expect he might continue to visit your club.”

“Oh, that would be nice Here I was worrying the murderer in our ranks might have put him off, but then, he would be made of sterner stuff.”

“Yes, he’s dealt with his fair share of murderers. Actually, I expect the number of murderers George has dealt with has been more than fair, even for a constable.”

“George Crabtree? Did I meet him?” Scott asks.

“I would not characterize Constable Crabtree as ‘lissome’, and certainly not as ‘blond’, if you were wondering. I don’t think so… you might have.”

“And here I thought you weren’t going to pry.” Germaine sighs.

“No, I wasn’t going to tell _Reed_. No-- no, I was only wondering if I knew him, I’m really not-- I’m not going to poke around your business or step on your toes. Honestly.”

“I did have a question, about _Gloria_. Not about-- Just… is that… do we all… do that?” Llewellyn asks, tentative.

“Oh, the names, do you mean? Well, not all, I suppose, but… it makes it easy, to talk. In places like this, over drinks, with people who… you need a different name in front of.”

He nods, feeling a slight, strange relief. “At work, they think I’m seeing a woman named Ella Smythe.”

“Ella Smythe! How creative. _Jack_ , some weeks ago-- oh, now, you did say you had no secrets!-- had to extol to me the virtues of a ‘Lulu’.”

“I never claimed to be good at names--”

“Virtues?” He smiles over at him, unaccountably shy-- though he thinks the pleasure that comes with it is… well, entirely accountable.

“I hope I haven’t made a secret of them to you.”

“No-- I just… didn’t imagine you… bragged to other people.”

“Well, I do. Now and then.”

“Now and then. If someone talked about me _once_ the way I’ve heard you talk about ‘Lulu’, I’d be a happy man.” Scott snorts. 

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, look at you. You’re very popular.” Germaine flaps a hand at him. “All the young things at parties must.”

“The young things at parties might _fawn_. It’s different. No young thing at a party has ever _sighed_ after whether or not I was a good detective.”

“ _Really_?” Llewellyn turns to Jack again.

“You’re going to have to bring me in for the murder of Glen Scott in a minute.” Jack sighs, dropping his face down into his hands-- to both Scott and Germaine’s great amusement.

“When was this?”

“Probably over lunch, the when’s not impor--”

“In _jail_.” Scott says, overtaken by a grin. 

“You _ass_.”

“ _Oh, but Glen, he’s_ different _from the others_ , _don’t you think_?”

“That is not what I said and that is not how I sounded.”

“ _Glen, you terrible cynic, if you had seen him when I did_ \--”

“I don’t remember any of this. You’re a liar and a cad.”

“Not to mention everything you had to say when you got _back_ \--”

Jack groans wordlessly, and Llewellyn dares a brief touch to his back. As much as he would be flattered to hear more, he holds his other hand up to stay Scott from elaborating.

“I’d better get back to work, gentlemen.” He rises, digging his wallet out and leaving a couple of bills with Jack. “If you could make sure my bill’s paid? And I’ll see you… well. I’ll see you.”

“Of course.” He manages a smile, despite the lingering blush. “Any time. I’ll hold onto your change for you.”

“You may as well put it towards this upcoming dinner.”

“Well-- all right. Have a good afternoon.”

“And you. Er-- and, all of you, gentlemen.”

“Oh, go on, we don’t mind.” Germaine waves him off with a smile.

And… he does find work easier to bear, when he returns to the stationhouse, to running evidence between offices or looking over fingermarks with the constables or a dozen odd meaningless tasks that he might have rightly called below him. Perhaps they are, but… 

But before Jack had much liked him, before Jack had _wanted_ him… Jack had seen promise in him as a professional. However much longer his punishment is to last, it matters less to him now. 

He even bears up under a renewed social invitation from the Murdoch-Ogden house-- though he can’t yet bring himself to accept, knowing he would have to go alone and make his excuses. 

“What about… tea?” Murdoch stops him leaving-- and this time, he doesn’t mind being stopped. “Just… five minutes, and a cup of tea. You could come alone. Julia… doubts that I have been doing a very good job of making the invitation. I’ve told her she might come by at any time she liked and ask you herself. Curiously, she protests her faith in me as well as her doubt.”

“Ah. Women.” Llewellyn nods, hoping that this is in fact what women are like, in a general sense.

“Your guess is honestly as good as mine.” He frowns. “I only need to understand one woman, and even that is… difficult. Though, to my wife’s defense, I don’t find men to be much easier to understand. People, really, people are very difficult to understand.”

“Man is a mystery. The depths of each man’s secret heart are knowable to no one. Even to understand ourselves is a lifelong journey most of us will never fully reach the end of. If you took all the world’s philosophers and all the world’s experts in the psyche, and put them in a room, they couldn’t lead you to a revelation you were not ready to make, which there is every likelihood of your not being.” He claps Murdoch’s shoulder. “If that helps.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

“Mm. Well.”

“Criminals, though. I find criminals easier. There are only so many motivators, so many patterns for a crime to fit into. Even the strangest… they all fit somewhere.”

“Mm. The criminal mind can be studied, of course. The works of Vidocq-- an invaluable resource and an insight into the tickings of the thief and the con artist. No one writes you a manual on friends, relatives, wives…”

“I fear that human motivators, outside of that narrow field, are simply too… complex and varied, for such a manual to be of much use. Criminals… steal, or they murder, or-- so on and so forth, outside of that… You couldn’t write a book explaining what all wives are like, because they’re all different individuals, it would be highly unethical to tout one single manual as the answer to marital relations given the enormous difference in marriages.”

“Perhaps so. Well, good talk!” He pats his shoulder one last time, before turning on his heel and setting off.

  
“Yes, but _are you coming to tea_?”


	16. I'd Rather Be a Forest Than a Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The career ups and downs continue, and dinner at the Murdoch-Ogden house is not quite as expected.

When he’s first called in to the convention, it’s as good as being a spare constable-- he’s there to watch for trouble and jump when told, nothing more. This… chafes, a little. He _ought_ to be a part of the active investigation. He ought to be on the move, looking for clues, looking for missing scientists, he ought to be _trusted_ with this.

The saving grace, he supposes, is being able to listen to some of the futurist philosophers. The hard sciences he has little interest in-- or, he has as much interest as he thinks the average person might, but the talks are often so dense that he gets little from them, compared to those thinkers who tackle social problems. 

What he hadn’t been prepared for, for all his longing for more to do, had been to suddenly find himself in charge of the entire investigation-- more than that, in charge of recovering not only the missing scientists, but Inspector Brackenreid, Detective Murdoch, Doctor Ogden, and _George_.

He does not consider for a moment being jealous of any faith placed in George. George rightfully ought be a detective himself, and also George is _missing_ , and George is one of the best friends he has, and he had not been at all prepared for this…

It’s a mess of frantic activity, which he’s been tasked with coordinating, simply because there isn’t anyone else. He wonders, if the inspector had been able to choose, between who might be kidnapped and who might run recovery efforts, whether he would choose to have _him_ as the last man standing. Obviously Murdoch would be his first choice, the man long marked for his successor-- a man who would already have that position were it not for politics. If he could have picked who would hold the fort and keep the home fires burning, he’d surely rather suffer Llewellyn’s company and trust Murdoch to save them both. Were Llewellyn the inspector, he would even leave George in charge before himself. He knows how to be commanding in an emergency, even if he hardly seems the type to be-- he knows every man who works in the stationhouse and he has a way with people, he would be… good at this.

Llewellyn feels as if he’s struggling to keep his head above water. When he delegates, he feels no real authority, though some of the constables are still quick to listen to him. The pressure of command is a distraction which keeps him from using the full power of his faculties on the case-- indeed, rather than tracking down clues himself, there is so much to do in organizing, there are so many places he needs to be.

That he manages to keep anyone else from disappearing feels a minor miracle. That he is able to keep things at the hotel from spiraling into further chaos is something he can comfort himself with. But after withering away doing nothing, the change is abrupt. To be made lead detective on a challenging case after ten _weeks_ of near-inactivity would have been sinking into a warm bath. To be made lead detective and acting inspector during the disappearance of several notable scientists and four people he personally knows, respects, and cares for is being thrown in the ocean.

In the end, his work hardly matters. They sail back into Toronto via hot air balloon, all in good shape, with directions for rescuing the others and apprehending those who had abetted a foe they’d already dealt with, and he…

What has he done? What will it ever matter?

Llewellyn wants nothing more than to crawl into Jack’s bed and stay there for a week, but they need to exercise some caution. Thanks to an indiscreet neighbor on Jack’s corridor, security in his building against overnight guests is tighter than it used to be, though Jack assures him it will pass. They can still meet, at his shop, to have a drink, to escort him to the building’s front door, but spending the night… not until things calm down. They have plans, eventual plans, for another book club meeting, where they will be free to express some affection. And after that, a dinner, a weekend, things he _aches_ for now that he and Jack are barely able to touch. He _longs_ for him, has composed and destroyed bits of poems about longing for him, but now, when he needs him so badly, he can’t go to him.

What he does get, is an invitation to dine at the Murdoch-Ogden house. 

This time, he accepts.

He hadn’t expected it to be _all_ of them-- not just Murdoch and Doctor Ogden, but the Brackenreids, George… he’d already been bracing himself for a dinner party during which he would have to lie and lie well, and now… 

Well, at least there’s George.

“Glad you could make it, Sir!” He greets. “The numbers come out, at least. It seems your Miss Smythe and my Effie were both unavailable this evening.”

“Mm, yes. You and I are… much in the same boat after the other night, I imagine. With the…”

“Oh, yes.” George rolls his eyes. “Effie’s promised to come ‘round to mine when she’s free, but it’s quite the bother. Up until that unfortunate young lady made such a to-do about her private affairs-- well, but of course that’s not important.” He coughs, glancing around the room. 

“Who is Miss Smythe?” Mrs. Brackenreid asks.

“Oh, that’s the detective’s sweetheart. She’s a very nice girl, I think. I mean, I don’t know her. She and Effie aren’t acquainted, that is, they’re in the same building but Effie doesn’t know her at all. So I’ve only seen her with Detective Watts in passing.”

“Oh. How nice.” She nods. “Well, I’m sure she’s lovely. I did say, Detective, you ought to have someone to look after you.”

“Yes, we’ve been hoping to meet… Detective Watts’ friend.” Murdoch says. “The, ah, Miss Smythe we’ve all heard… things about. Although I suppose tonight was a poor night for it.”

“Still, it’s so good to have you back at last, for a real proper visit.” Doctor Ogden touches his arm, smile warm. 

“I couldn’t pass up on the opportunity to learn what happened, with the case. And… with your very unusual return.”

“Well, lucky for all of us, Julia remembered her lessons in ballooning, or we might have been much later in getting home.” Murdoch nods. 

“There’s not much one can do about the wind, of course, but when it comes to making a soft landing.” She laughs, steers him to come and sit.

The story comes out over dinner-- the speed with which the potato cooking room works is impressive, but the results are hit-and-miss. It is perhaps unfair of him to compare said results to Jack’s cooking, it’s as good as or better than his own ever is, when he’s able to cook at all. As for the case and its conclusion, it’s an engaging tale on all fronts, enough to make up for what parts of the meal are not so engaging.

“And how about you?” Inspector Brackenreid asks, when they’ve gotten through the whole thing-- and to much shocked commentary from Margaret, beyond his own interjections. “How’d you get on while we were busy?”

“Oh-- well… you made it back before we could catch much of a break in the case. It was… a lot of damage control. Without yourself or Detective Murdoch, it was… difficult. I’m not exactly… inspector material.”

“Yes, well, I’ll be the judge of that after I’ve read the reports, won’t I?” Brackenreid points his fork at him. “You were missing all of us, plus the brain trust, and you managed to keep things from completely falling apart. Not easy work, is it? Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown?”

“No, Sir, it was not. And I suspect very much so.”

“Suppose I’ve been hard on you long enough, all things considered…” He says, and Llewellyn’s heart starts thudding in his chest. “I mean, I expect by now you learned your lesson with that business, letting Walker out of the cells.”

“I expect I’ve learned a great deal since I released Jack Walker in exchange for his full cooperation in my investigation, yes. More than I can really say.”

“Wait, _Jack Walker_? Our _butcher_? Thomas, what on earth were you doing arresting Jack Walker? When did this happen?”

“Margaret-- Margaret, please. I mean he’s not our butcher any longer, is he?”

“What is the _meaning_ of this, Thomas?”

“He was a person of interest in an investigation--”

“He was a witness, and he found the body.” Llewellyn says. So much for keeping his head down… His jaw is clenched so tight the very words he speaks sound different than they ought, the tension is so all-encompassing that he doesn’t even feel it in any single place, it just _is_. “He didn’t _do_ anything--”

“He didn’t come forward and report finding the body, did he?”

“And in _any other investigation_ , you would never have stood for my ignoring an obvious financial motive in favor of an easy arrest.”

He can see his own chest rise and fall in the periphery of his vision, his face feels hot. Here he is, he’d stood on the verge of regaining some measure of favor, at least conditional on how the reports ran for his brief, stressful, and otherwise unremarkable stint as emergency inspector, but what else could he have done? What else could he have _said_?

“He… does have a point, Sir.” Murdoch says softly, after what’s felt like an eternity locked in a staredown. “Detective Watts was acting in the manner you might well have advised on another case, and he did find the killer.”

“That’s not the point. The point is, I ordered him to put a man in that cell, and he let him go instead.”

“Well, in addition to.”

“Thomas, is it _really_ such a problem if one of your detectives is friends with our butcher?”

“Yes, it would be a problem-- no, you know what, it’s an even bigger one that they’re not friends, one of my detectives decided to trust a complete stranger--”

“A man _you used to trust_.”

“That was before--”

“Which you _wouldn’t_ have, if he wasn’t an honest man.” Llewellyn raises his voice. There goes his career, he’ll be transferred again at best, he won’t be spending his days with George, he won’t be asked to any future dinner parties, and he didn’t _want_ to be invited to them but he doesn’t want to be disinvited, either, he wants… He wants impossible things. But his voice is steady, one hundred percent. “If you want to punish me for another ten weeks, then I will accept your decision, _Sir_ , but over the course of that investigation, I worked by your previous advice and trusted _your_ initial judgment of Jack Walker’s character. I was not wrong to do so.”

“I just don’t understand why he couldn’t be friends with Jack Walker, I thought this was about a _sports_ team and now you’re telling me you arrested the man!”

“He just can’t be, and he’s not, and that’s final.”

“I’m not going all the way across town _or_ to that cheat Slocombe just because _you_ don’t want to admit you were wrong to arrest him, Thomas!”

“If it’s any consolation, I wouldn’t characterize my relationship with Jack Walker as our being _friends_.” Llewellyn stands. “I stand by my assertion that he is a decent man. Detective Murdoch, Doctor Ogden, my apologies for ruining your dinner party. I will be in to work tomorrow to face whatever disciplinary measures you see fit given my behavior tonight. Excuse me.”

Doctor Ogden goes after him, but if she says anything beyond merely trying to get his attention, he doesn’t digest it. He doesn’t stop moving, until he reaches Jack’s building, where he realizes he can’t go in. Even if he hadn’t missed the curfew for the front door, he wouldn’t be able to, not tonight. He’s just come without thinking. When he’d thought of home, this was where he’d come.

Going the eight blocks to the room he rents is the heaviest the trip has ever been. He crawls into bed-- uncomfortable, cold, lonely-- and he reaches for Jack’s photograph. 

Summer. They’ll go somewhere. By summer, maybe… maybe he’ll have recovered from tonight. 

Summer. Camped by a lake. All the seclusion they’d need to lie together, in the sunlight, to kiss in the open air. 

Summer. Jack stripping down, inviting him to do the same. Splashing in the water or rolling in the grass. 

Summer. The faint golden tan freckling that dusts his face, his arms, suddenly richer, fuller. And he’d be free to kiss each one...

It’s winter now, it’s cold and it’s bleak and it’s dark. But it’s _going_ to be summer, if he can hold out. 

What will they do, if he doesn’t recover from this, if he’s lost his job? He’s catastrophizing, he knows, but what will they do? He can’t ask Jack to take care of him like that, but what else can he _do_? This is the only thing that’s ever really made sense to him, what else could he be good at?

“I’ll fix this,” He traces a fingertip over the photograph, rolling onto his back. He just needs to convince himself, that’s all, he just needs to convince himself so that he can sleep, and in the morning, either it will look better, or it will be resolved. “I’ll take care of this. We’ll be safe. We’ll be safe.”

He just wishes he could believe himself.

Sleep comes in time, though not much of it. Heavy clouds hang over his dreams. He is a subdued man when he comes into stationhouse four in the morning, and for much of the morning he’s left to stew, to pace, unable to manage George’s sympathetic looks.

“Watts.” Brackenreid calls him into his office-- brusque, but not shouted. Resigned? What does _that_ mean?

He doesn’t sit, until he’s motioned to, and he’s not sure he likes it once he is. 

“I’ve been going over all the reports covering my… absence, during this last case.”

“Sir?”

“You took charge of a difficult situation, and by all accounts, you did a good job with it.”

“I didn’t solve the case.”

“This job isn’t about whether or not you get to solve one case, Watts, and this is the job you had no choice but to step into. This job is about knowing how to use the men at your disposal, it’s about coordinating an entire stationhouse, and it’s about containing matters before the public can panic. It’s about being able to pull yourself back and look at the big picture. And you’ve shown some aptitude for it.”

“I didn’t feel particularly apt, Inspector.”

“Course you didn’t. It was your first time-- and our going missing with no official temporary replacement for me able to be called in in time’s a hell of an introduction to it. But…” He picks up the stack of reports and tosses it back down onto his desk. “Here we are.”

He’s not sure what to say. This may be a far cry from the career repercussions he thought he’d be facing, but it doesn’t make him feel any less trapped, any less apprehensive. After a long moment of his saying nothing, the inspector sighs.

“I’m trying to tell you you’ve done a good job.”

“Yes, that’s what it looks like. I… was not prepared for this, when I came in today.”

“Yes, well. There are a few things you need in this job. Knowing when to stick to your guns, even if it looks like suicide-- of the career or physical variety. Letting it roll off your back when your own bosses come storming in thinking they know how to best run your business, not caring what anyone thinks of you provided you know you’re doing the job right-- oh, you’ve got to know when to play nice, which is a skill you’ve _not_ got, but you play nice too often and the job just won’t be done right. You have to know when to be a bit politic, and you have to know when to be a right bastard. You’ve got the latter half down, at least.”

“Sir.”

“My wife had a word with me, the other night, after you’d gone.” He leans forward, folding his hands over the stacked report and fixing Llewellyn with an unreadable look-- one which nonetheless floods him with fear. For all that Mrs. Brackenreid had been taking his side in the matter-- or taking Jack’s side, which amounts to the same-- one wrong word from her, one question of how he could say that he and Jack weren’t friends when she had on several occasions seen them friendly… the accidental reveal of his continued association would be damning. “She’s… informed me that-- Look, the particulars of what my wife said aren’t important. But… Walker’s been giving her pretty fair treatment considering I was prepared to charge him with a murder someone else committed, and that’s not me condoning any of what you did-- if you ever do it again, you’ll be out of here faster than you can say Jack Robinson! You don’t just let suspects run around doing what they like while you sit around twiddling your thumbs and saying they’ll be back, that’s how killers go free. But… you raise a good point, any other case and I’d have put you onto the question of who’d be after the victim’s valuables myself. And… maybe my _initial_ assessment of Walker’s character wasn’t so far off as I’d feared, when he was… mixed up in all that business. Mind, if we ever arrest my greengrocer, that man’s probably a murderer, so I mean it about not pulling this again just because you think I extend a certain amount of trust to every man I do business with.”

“Sir.” He nods.

“... That was a joke, Watts. Oh, nevermind. Look… I want you to take some time off to get your head straight-- the rest of the day or the rest of two days... whatever it is you need to work through the stress of having to step into my job while still trying to do your own and Murdoch’s. And we’ll just chalk last night’s display up to the pressures of the job.”

He’s suddenly glad he’d been made to sit, he thinks if he’d been on his feet, the relief flooding him at that would have knocked him to the floor. It has him lightheaded, he’s not sure his knees would hold him.

“ _Thank_ you, Sir. I won’t disappoint you.”

“Damn right you won’t.” He gets to his feet, and so Llewellyn follows suit despite the weak-kneed dizziness he still feels. “And Watts-- if you decide promotion to inspector is something you want to pursue, I’ve got plenty of advice you might find useful. That’s all.”

“I don’t see it happening, given my lack of any political quality, but thank you. I-- I would appreciate any of the wisdom of your experience regardless of whether I am likely to advance in my career.”

“Well, don’t sell yourself too short, now. I wasn’t born with any ‘political quality’ myself and here I am.”

“If Detective Murdoch has been up for this promotion and been denied it on the basis of being _Catholic_ , Inspector, I’m not going to be considered.”

A particularly stubborn set to the jaw and furrow of the brow come over him at that, and he folds his arms. “We’ll just have to wait and see about that, then. For now, forget about being politic, and take the rest of the day, and that’s a bloody order. Go on.”

“Yes, Sir.” Llewellyn smiles, half in spite of himself. He’s not entirely sure what’s even _happened_ , but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

He’s too late to catch Jack at the start of his lunch hour, but he’s content to wait outside. The moment the shades come back up, Jack spots him-- spots him as he’s in the act of flipping the sign, and he quickly opens the door to him.

“Llewellyn?”

“Office-- please?”

Jack nods, first hanging his coat and hat up and then taking his arm and escorting him back, and the moment they’re safe within the privacy of the office, Llewellyn pulls him into a firm embrace.

“To what do I owe the pleasure…?”

“So much. So much… I-- Everything. Work, and-- not work, and--” He stops himself, kissing Jack soundly and feeling better equipped to continue once he’s done so. “I was on duty at a convention of futurists, when several scientists were kidnapped, and then… also the inspector, and Detective Murdoch, and-- It’s not important exactly, and perhaps you’ve seen it in the news by now, some of it, I only mean… it was just _me_ , I was the only one left. I had to run things. And-- well, they got out of it all right without me, but that’s not what matters. Apparently everyone’s accounts of my time taking charge paint me in a surprisingly good light, for how little I felt like I’d done, and-- I thought Brackenreid would transfer me to another stationhouse the way they did when I didn’t get on at stationhouse one. I thought at _best_. There was a dinner party, when everyone got back, I was… There was some shouting. My previous-- the _insubordination_ was… remembered. But then this morning, everything-- Everything is going well, for me? Inspector Brackenreid thinks _I_ have potential-- I mean, promotion potential, and that’s not-- I don’t think… But he thinks!”

Jack goes from watching him in varying degrees of confusion to understanding, to laughing, throwing his arms around Llewellyn’s neck anew and pulling him down to be kissed, firmly and with feeling.

“Llew, that’s wonderful. Really.”

“Last night I thought I was through. I went by your building because I-- because I don’t know where else to go anymore but to you, and then I was so miserable lying in bed without you, and I didn’t know what I would do if I lost this job, and now… and now!”

“We should celebrate.” He cups Llewellyn’s cheeks, beaming up at him. “I wish I could have you over tonight… I can’t believe this happens and I can’t even take you home and show you exactly how happy I am for you.”

“I mean, it’s not going to _be_ a promotion. Politically, I’m… unpromotable. The fact that I made detective so young won’t translate into anything, but--”

“But you’re being recognized, still. I want to… buy you a bottle of champagne. Rub your shoulders. Rub anything else you’ve got that gets stiff...” Jack’s voice drops to a murmur, as his lips near Llewellyn’s ear, and there’s just enough promise in it to go straight to his head. Or… not to his head.

Which is more than he thinks he can deal with, just now, in Jack’s office. He doesn’t hold any expectation of being touched more intimately than this, here. Just the brief suggestion is a lot.

“I just wanted to be able to see you, before the book club. I just… I had to tell you.”

“I’ll have to take a bottle of champagne to book club.”

“You don’t have--”

“Will you please let me be proud of you?” Jack asks, in a tone that allows for no argument-- the same tone with which he insists on Llewellyn eating a proper meal, or not twisting his spine into anything resembling a pretzel, the same tone with which he insists that he _will_ love him, whether or not Llewellyn believes he deserves such loving.

“I just don’t want to make a fuss in front of everyone. But… if you wanted to fuss over me, I suppose there’s room for compromise.”

The look Jack gives him is all warmth and fondness, and he straightens Llewellyn’s tie and smooths over the front of his jacket. 

“I will fuss over you. Llewellyn… _my beloved_. You deserve this. It’s time you had a little recognition, whatever comes of it or doesn’t come of it. At least… you know your hard work’s been seen. And I--”

The sound of the bell interrupts him and his head drops forward to Llewellyn’s shoulder with a groan.

“Was that the door?”

“I flipped the sign, I unlocked the door… I didn’t flip it back when you came in, I just-- Look. I’ll take care of this customer and then-- have you eaten? I’ll get you something.”

“My appetite has not been up to its usual form today.” He admits. “I could eat.” 

“Good. I’ll find something nice in a minute.” He pats Llewellyn’s hip gently before pulling away, moving to slip out of the office. 

Llewellyn drifts after him, after a moment, to lean against the doorframe and watch him through the door where it’s left ajar. 

“-- _saster_ , and now-- and I only got the telephone call the moment before I rushed over here!-- it’s down to me to save the entire ladies’ luncheon!” The familiar and unexpected voice of Margaret Brackenreid reaches him. It’s not her usual time, but then again, it’s not her usual situation, it sounds like. 

He remains frozen in place, silent, willing her not to notice him. After everything… well, she can’t have mentioned his own frequent enough visits here, can’t have learned the whole story behind things, otherwise would she be here? Still, he finds himself listening in for any indication of what she might have said to her husband and vice versa, after the scene he had made at dinner.

It can’t have had anything to do with him, or he would have been disciplined, not commended.

Still.

She doesn’t look towards the office, she focuses on Jack, as he shows her a few cuts and discusses possible luncheon menus. 

“Well…” He brings something out to show her. “As it’s _you_ , Missus Brackenreid, I don’t mind telling you… there are a few cuts I like to reserve for myself, so depending on what you think the ladies are expecting… Now this is something I’d stew a long time, I find when you do you get a wonderful result, but if you’re looking for something faster, I’ve got a couple more options new in today.”

“Well, it was all set to be a hamburg steak, before everything fell apart. I don’t see why _I_ couldn’t do that.”

Jack bends down, puts back what he’d been showing her before straightening up. “Let me go in the back and get just the thing minced for you. And how many are you serving?”

Their voices grow less distinct, as they move away from where Llewellyn is hiding, though when Jack disappears into the back, Mrs. Brackenreid drifts back through the shop. She pauses for a while near the coat rack, then turns and wanders back the other direction without ever looking in his. The relief at being overlooked is _opiate_. Jack re-emerges with her minced beef, Llewellyn watches as the transaction is completed, and she pauses once more on her way out, as if about to turn and say something, but she leaves without spotting him, and he dares moving further back into the office, should anyone else arrive.

Jack leaves the door slightly ajar when he does return with a little lunch, to be better able to listen for the bell, but they have enough privacy, should no one come in. Enough to… indulge, a little bit. To allow Jack to lean in and feed him a couple bites, and to drink in his look of rapturous concentration when he does. 

“I am proud of you.” Jack says softly, his thumb caressing Llewellyn’s lower lip. “And… I’m glad you came to see me. I just wish I could stay back here with you the rest of the day.”

He wishes he could ask it. He knows he can’t. He takes Jack’s wrist, just to keep him from drawing back so soon, and rationalizes his next action-- Jack has already hand-fed him bites of sausage, has already touched his lips, will already want to wash up between this stolen moment and work. And it takes so little encouragement, for that thumb to slide between his lips… it’s so easy to take it entirely into his mouth and _suck_ , to let his tongue play over the pad of it. To let a pleased hum escape him.

He makes absolutely no pretense at the action being about sausage grease. 

“Oh… oh, you…” Jack’s voice is shaky, caught between accusation and awe. 

“Something to think about, until next time.”

“You give me enough to think about, Detective Watts, my imagination does not need the help.”

Llewellyn can’t stop his smile at that, even as he ducks his head and accepts what may be a well-deserved chiding. The sense of _joy_ that takes him is enormous, and it only grows as Jack rises, as he catches the way he adjusts his apron very carefully to disguise any slight _stirring_. Grows again at the way Jack takes him by the chin and tilts his face up-- he doesn’t direct him towards eye contact, his own gaze is focused on Llewellyn’s mouth, and it makes being directed feel so much safer, though at this moment he wouldn’t find eye contact off-putting. 

“I love you.” He says, leaning into that touch.

“... Now that’s playing dirty.” Jack’s other hand rakes through his hair. “How am I supposed to tell you off for teasing me when you go and say something sweet?”

“I hadn’t considered that.” He squeezes Jack’s wrist, once, gentle.

“Oh, hadn’t you? Well… I love you, too. Even when you’re the _worst_. Do I come into your work and rile you up?”

“You came into my work and I embarked upon an entire journey of sexual discovery.”

“... All right. But _behave_ , I’d rather not be _standing at attention_ when I have customers.”

“I’ll behave. I’ll see you, at book club.”

He rises, and Jack kisses him, brief and sweet, before letting him go.

“I can’t wait.”


	17. What a Swell Night This is For Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A much pleasanter dinner party, than the last one. And this time, it's as a couple.
> 
> (AKA: BOYS NIGHT BOYS NIGHT BOYS NIGHT)

“Llew!” Jack’s face lights up, when he comes in at the end of the day. And… it has been a while. They’ve been cautious, in anticipation of their weekend plans, with things so tense at Jack’s boarding house. They’ve seen each other, had the occasional quick lunch or an escorting home and perhaps even a drink, without an overnight stay. They had been free to be close, to be open, during the meeting of the book club-- this time, everyone had retired early on from the dining room to the parlor, and Llewellyn had sat on the floor where he could lean back against Jack’s lap, where he could have his hair idly played with and know no one else minded them. But so much… so much has waited upon tonight.

“Jack.” He catches him, hands at his waist for only a moment, resists the urge to draw him closer, kiss him. Soon… soon they’ll be back with friends, where they can just _be_ , only this time they’re not discussing Plato’s Symposium, they’re not beginning to discuss Leaves of Grass, they’re discussing… well, he’s not sure. Anything anyone likes, which is a little bit terrifying, but he can do this. And then… and then just he and Jack will be not so much discussing as _doing_ , which… 

“Have I told you I like you in this suit?” Jack smooths over his lapels, and he fixes the strap of his overnight bag before it can slip down too far.

“Once or twice.” He feels his face heat. “You said the color suited me.”

“Did I? Did I neglect to mention that the cut of this suit is downright _scandalous_?” He grins, lets his eyes rake over Llewellyn, and the urge to grab him, the desire to be grabbed, is overwhelming. “Because that is something I’ve noticed. The fact that you can walk down the street like this without causing pandemonium in your wake…”

“I just-- You… that’s a thing you’ve noticed? I just find too much excess fabric… uncomfortable, a distraction from… work, thought. I don’t care for a suit that’s cut too loosely.” He shrugs. At least with his suits, there’s the option of getting them tailored to conform a little-- he’s had to put up with activewear being what it is, particularly in colder months. “Don’t like dealing with how it bunches up, when I’m on the move. I just want exactly enough give _to_ move, I don’t like the excess that seems to be fashionable.”

“I’ve noticed you don’t have that problem. In these trousers. With those hips. I never thought of the cut of most suits as being ‘excessive’, but I’m beginning to see your point of view. Why do we let men who _don’t_ appreciate the male form dictate fashion?”

Llewellyn bites his lip, grinning. “Oh, my hips?”

“Your hips, your shoulders… your body. I’ve been looking forward to tonight.”

“So have I.” He tucks himself in closer, not half so close as he wants to be, but closer. They’re still in the shop, the shades not yet drawn.

“We’d better get a move on. I went over earlier on pretense of making a delivery so that I could start dinner, but I need to get over there soon to finish it off.”

“Do you have everything you need?”

“Already at Aldous’.” Jack nods, pulling the shades. Llewellyn stands by as he finishes locking up, follows him as he moves to hail a cab. 

It means they get there in good time. Scott answers the door, ushering them in.

“He’s just fussing over getting the guest room set.” He smiles, closing the door behind them. “Jack, you know where the kitchen is?”

“I know where the kitchen is.”

Hats and coats are taken. Jack sheds his jacket as well, rolling up his sleeves already, a distraction.

“I’ll show you up so you can stash your bag.” Scott offers, giving Llewellyn’s arm a brief touch. 

“Oh-- first…” He unshoulders his bag and brings out two bottles of wine. “These belong downstairs.”

Scott takes one of the bottles from him, looking it over. “Oh, good choice. But then, Jack must have told you the menu ahead of time.”

“Not the fine details, but... this was the wine I brought over once, for us. It went well then, and he’d mentioned it would be lamb for the big dinner. Your pick the other evening for the book club, by the way-- excellent.”

“Leaves of Grass or the merlot?”

“Oh-- well, the merlot. I’ll have to develop an opinion on the poetry after I read it.”

With the wine dropped off on the sideboard, Llewellyn picks his bag back up and follows Scott up the stairs. 

“You’ve never read it? Not one for poetry?”

“No, my… education has been somewhat remiss, where… certain things are concerned. Not-- not poetry, but…”

“Ah. Yes.”

“A book with a reputation. The thought that someone would see me pick it up and they would know my interest was too personal.”

They reach the landing, where Scott falls back to pat his shoulder. “You never run out of things to be afraid of. But sometimes… well, I don’t recommend going the route I did, but losing everything once has made me a much less fearful man. Even without that, though… you’ll learn to let yourself enjoy things.”

“Ah, yes. I appreciate your perspective… We’ve been in enough of the same places in life. The secrecy…”

“Stationhouse one.” Scott snorts. “If we survived there, we could probably survive anything. The bath is up here--”

He jogs forward a couple of steps, opens the door to show Llewellyn the room. Pink damask wallpaper, a clawfoot tub that wouldn’t _fit_ in the bath at Llewellyn’s boarding house-- and the outside of _that_ is enameled over pink as well. 

“It’s… a lot to get used to.” Scott admits with a soft laugh. “I keep thinking… this is his _guest_ bathroom. Aldous is a man who… appreciates opulence. He really tries… to make people comfortable. I just don’t think he has any idea that you could be comfortable with less. Since he put me up, he’s been asking if everything is _enough_ , I have no idea how to say it’s too much.”

“Ah. Well. That certainly is a bath…” He nods. And there’s the cabinet of soft-looking towels and various soaps and things… candles, mirrors with gilded frames. “Although… I think-- I wouldn’t know what to do with opulence, for more than a night. But… I’ve come to accept that it’s not so bad, to be taken care of. One way or another.”

“I’ve always been comfortable trespassing on opulence, but living in it’s different. When you’re going to parties, when you’re not staying long, there’s not someone asking you if your linens are soft enough or what kind of caviar you like or if you need anything in the world. Maybe if you’re lucky there’s a breakfast in it for you once in a while, but… this? Is a lot.”

“Is it a lot because you have a gigantic pink and gilt bathtub and sometimes there’s caviar, or is it a lot because someone is asking questions about your comfort and your needs and wants?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you’re used to parties in opulent houses, and being lucky to get breakfast after… maybe it’s not the opulence that’s overwhelming you. Jack has rooms in a boarding house, and he’s never offered me caviar, and the bath is what it is and so are the linens, but I’m still… overwhelmed. Frequently. Just to be his priority.”

“It’s a different situation.” Scott scratches the back of his neck. “I mean he moved me into his _guest room_ , he’s never suggested… We’re not lovers. Not sure if that would make it easier or harder, to feel like a kept man.”

“No, but you’re still being taken care of by someone. It’s still overwhelming sometimes to discover that you have a friend who wants to care for you, who thinks about your comfort, who would _work_ for your comfort. I think… you and I have that in common as well. We’re accustomed to self-sufficiency.”

“How do you handle… not being self-sufficient?”

“Because no man is an island and eventually you’ll run out of steam trying to remain self-sufficient forever. And because it makes Jack happy. And… because I can take care of him, too. I’m learning how.”

“I don’t exactly do very much as a roommate right now…”

“Detective Scott?”

“Glen. Please.”

“Glen. If you don’t mind my making an observation? This would be a very lonely house to live in, all alone. And all the fancy bathtubs and crystal chandeliers and velvet davenports do not play cards with a man in the evening.”

“Is that enough?”

“I didn’t think so, once. Now I do.”

“Well, the guest room is down this way.” He steps back, moving around Llewellyn to lead him on to the room at the end of the hall. They reach the door at the moment Germaine is opening it from the other side.

“Oh! Detective, I’ve got everything set just in time, then.” He greets brightly. “Go right on in and set your things as you like. Now did Glen show you the bath?”

“Yes. It’s… very.”

“Isn’t it?” He beams. “I made sure to have an excess of towels.”

“Excess seems the word, yes.”

“I’m so glad you think so.” Germaine pats his cheek. “Is Jack in the kitchen, then? I’ll go and make sure he’s finding everything.”

“Yes-- yes, he’s… kitchen.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Glen nods, hand moving to Germaine’s back as the three of them have to shuffle their positions in the narrow hallway, to allow Llewellyn to get to the room and Germaine to get past. “So you can settle in. And you’ll find us when you’re ready.”

“Thank you, yes. I’ll just… stash things. Familiarize myself.”

He’s glad to have a little time on his own, to breathe, to decompress. Being an overnight guest in this house is going to be… well, a _lot_. But the idea of having this, a night where he and Jack don’t need to worry, where they might treat the guest room as if they’d been able to go to a very well-appointed hotel… and the idea of having dinner with friends and talking freely, even moreso than at lunch! 

Jack’s things are already in the room, his bag beneath the bed, tomorrow’s clothes hanging in the wardrobe. He hangs his own suit alongside, and finds himself struck to the heart by the sight of their suits side by side. He lets his hand skim over Jack’s sleeve, touches the tie he’d selected for the following day.

The bedroom wallpaper is blue and gold floral, the curtains and the bedspread green. It’s soothing and serene, but not without warmth. The small fireplace is set up for a fire later, and as difficult as it is to imagine Germaine hauling up the firewood, he must have done, as part of his last-minute preparations. A window looks out onto a row of trees. It’s… nice. A bit opulent, but not so much so that he thinks he couldn’t relax here. There’s a painting over the fireplace, classical in subject matter-- which is to say, there’s a very grecian figure, armed with spear and barely draped, youthful and athletic. A softer barely-draped youth kneeling at his feet and gazing up in an adoration barely disguised as hero worship. Did he change out the paintings, if he ever had a guest not of their persuasion? Or did people simply… not see?

Or perhaps he never put a guest in this room who wouldn’t appreciate the decor. The little marble reproductions of nudes on the mantle to flank the painting, a little bust of Adonis on one nightstand. Little touches. He thinks the Llewellyn Watts of a month ago would have been terrified, to stay in this room, to be _seen_ by these things, to feel so known. The Llewellyn Watts of two months ago wouldn’t have been able to look at the art in more than the briefest darting glances, without feeling panicky and overcome, without feeling his secret wants so close to the surface. 

The Llewellyn Watts of today touches the face of one statuette, and casts his eye over the painting, and thinks about Jack, thinks about sharing a sprawling, soft bed with him, a little weekend getaway, even if they aren’t getting very far away.

He sets a few more things where he thinks he’ll want them, not that he’s packed many things, and he takes a little time to breathe, and then he heads back downstairs, finding Glen and Germaine setting the table, laughing over something.

“Can I do anything to help?” He asks.

“Not in the least, you’re a _guest_.”

“I thought I was one of the people who owed you dinner and a game of cards in exchange for the use of a room in your house.”

“Well… yes, and that. But the table’s just set. Though, right through there, you can see if your man needs a hand.”

“In the kitchen? I’m afraid he’s the chef between us and I chiefly... appreciate, where food is concerned. I’m used to setting the table. Bringing the wine.”

“I’ve got one bottle decanted-- Glen tells me you’ve excellent taste.”

Llewellyn shrugs, pleased. “I’ve taken up the study, I find it interesting enough. Well-- I’ll see if I can be put to use… somehow.”

He may not be any good as a cook, but he could help carry things, he could take direction. Couldn’t he?

The kitchen is beautiful, as he might have expected. Big and gleaming, and Jack looks at home there, moving between stove and oven and back to check on it all.

“Llew.” He smiles, turning and beckoning him close. “Settling in?”

“I saw the bath.”

Jack chuckles, leaning up to kiss his cheek.”The big pink tub? It’s… a lot.”

“That was the entirety of my thoughts. The bedroom is nice. I-- the bedroom is very nice.”

“Nervous?” He grabs a clean spoon, getting a taste of the sauce he’s been bringing together and blowing across it gently before offering it.

“No-- yes. But… not afraid. Mm-- oh, that’s nice… I’m looking forward to tonight. I don’t know much of what to expect… It feels like it’s been so long since we had a night together…”

“I know, I miss just having you in my arms. The weight of your head on my shoulder, lying in bed, your hands on me… sleepy. Feeling like we could just be happy…”

“Waking up with you.” He takes the spoon and sets it aside, settles with his arms around Jack’s waist as he watches him tend to the pans on the stove. “I hate waking up without you. Not that I’m inclined to get out of bed early either way, but at least in your bed… the world’s rosier.”

“I hate cooking breakfast for one.” Jack leans back into his chest, lets his head drop back to Llewellyn’s shoulder. “Feels so lonely to. Feels so quiet when you’re not hunting around for your underwear.”

“Oh, hearing me hunt around is what you like? That’s why you can never just drop them, you have to throw them over your shoulder?”

“Seeing you hunt around.” He rests a hand over Llewellyn’s arm. “Bending over the furniture looking for everything. Or crawling under it. Watching you from the stove.”

“Mm, I see.” He nuzzles at him, holds him a little tighter. “You just want to see me crawling around naked on my hands and knees.”

“ _God_ yes.”

“... Really?”

“You don’t need to be crawling?” Jack shrugs. “I mean… you can see how I like the view.”

“I’m… getting used to the idea that you like the view. I’m figuring out… what about the view you like. I mean… I know what I like, about the view, the view that I have.”

“I’ve got to get the crown roast. Keep an eye on my pans?”

“Really?”

“Nothing’s going to happen when I step away for a minute.” He laughs, slipping out of Llewellyn’s arms and passing off a wooden spoon. “Just stir, I’ll be right back. Feel free to tell me what you like about the view.”

“Everything. Your chest, and your shoulders. And your arms. And your hands. And your-- Everything.”

He stirs, casting an occasional nervous eye to the other pots on the stove, but nothing boils over in the time it takes Jack to relieve him.

“Be a lamb and help me with the potatoes?” Jack asks. “And I’ll tell you what _I_ like about the view.”

This is the most he’s ever done in the kitchen with Jack, but he’s eager to be of use, likes the thought of cooking _together_ \-- not that he’s ever minded being helpful in other ways and being told to sit and let Jack handle the cooking, but he likes this, just doing as he’s told to be handy, with the cooking. He’s never been particularly good at following orders, professionally-- though from time to time he’s certainly tried to be-- and he’s never been a good cook, but he finds it easy to take direction here, from Jack. 

“I think about what it would be like, to be in you.” Jack continues at last, once he has Llewellyn at work mashing the potatoes, and as he goes between the sauce and the broccoli, testing everything and moving it all to gravy boat and serving dish. “When I’m admiring that beautiful backside of yours. And I can hardly keep my hands to myself. But… I also think about kissing my way along the length of your spine, and I think… I think about how much I’d like to watch you run, one of these days. I am… enamored, of your thighs. And your hands.”

“I like how pink you get.” He ventures. Every time he’s been granted the opportunity, to talk about what it is he likes about Jack-- physically-- and to hear what Jack sees in him, it feels… big. And he feels nervous at the thought of getting it all wrong somehow. And then Jack will smile and glance away and blush, and tell him things, impossibly wonderful things, and… Will he ever get used to this? “At the center of your chest and up your throat. I like… seeing, how I affect you. I like-- I like _knowing_ , that whatever I’m doing is right.”

“The way you look at me.” He nods, satisfied he has most of dinner set and ready, his focus on the waiting dishes between half-shy glances, and a smile that is anything but shy. “Like I have the power to _amaze_ you--”

“You do.”

Jack bites his lip, and nods again. “And… like you trust me to do anything, to do it.”

“I do.”

“I plan on taking very good care of you tonight, Llewellyn.” He draws closer, stands behind Llewellyn and rests his forehead against one shoulder, hands at his waist. “There are no truly delicate ways to talk you through some of it, but I will be careful with you. I will do everything in my power to make the experience a good one.”

“I’m not a man of very delicate sensibilities. You can speak as plainly as you need to. I know you’ll be gentle with me as I need you to be. And… as firm with me as I need you to be, also. How do the potatoes look?”

“Ready, I think.”

“Does this mean I’ll be helping you in the kitchen more?”

“In my kitchen? _Maybe_ , but I hardly have space like this for more than one person to work. Still… would it make you happy?”

“I think so. Just whatever little things I can do for you.”

Jack kisses the back of his neck. “I like seeing you relax and I like feeding you… but this was nice, too, cooking together. Maybe-- jobs you could do at the table while I’m at the stove, or letting you babysit a sauce for me while I check the oven. It would be… cozy. But I reserve the right to tell you to go and put your feet up after a long day every once in a while.”

Jack gets another serving dish for the potatoes, and between the two of them, they bring everything out to the table, where Jack preens under praise from the others, the oohs and ahs the crown roast gets just from the impressive visual of it. Glasses are filled, and plates-- Jack insists on serving him, and Llewellyn has no complaints there, he is happy to be fussed over. Even as the discussion begins to flow, he’s the focus of Jack’s attention, has Jack’s eyes on him as he moans around his first tastes of everything.

“If your detective is half as passionate in other arenas as he is about your cooking, I can see how you’re worried your walls are too thin.” Germaine says, after a particularly enthusiastic bite.

“Aldous Germaine, don’t you tease _my_ detective.” Jack reaches over, smoothly taking Llewellyn’s fork before he can set it down in a moment of self-consciousness, and just as smoothly reaching across him to take his knife. Leans over just enough to be able to cut and feed him his next bite. “He’s passionate about plenty of things, if you must know. I don’t think I could stand to be with a man who wasn’t.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Glen raises his glass. “The last time I had a lover with absolutely no real hobbies, it was… I will freely admit, I’m not an interesting man--”

“Oh, come now.”

“I’m not, I’ve never been.” He waves at Germaine to quiet his protests. “Too career focused, ever since I started. I didn’t pick up hobbies-- I would join in any sport the boys at work invited me to, but none of them was a _passion_. I was buttoned up work me, or I was sneaking in and out of clubs and parties hoping to meet someone for a good time, which only makes you interesting when you’re young and pretty.”

“You’re not exactly old or difficult to look at now.” Germaine rolls his eyes. “But go on.”

“I don’t know, I just mean… I was boring. And I didn’t realize how boring, until I was with someone and I realized neither of us had anything to _talk_ about. Neither of us wanted to hear about the other’s job, and the only other thing we did was… what we were doing. And that I had friends I wasn’t… sexually compatible with, who had actual interests and hobbies, and that maybe I just needed to _be_ a more interesting person.”

“What did you come up with?” Llewellyn asks.

“Maybe joining a book club.” Glen laughs. “I don’t really know. I let Owen drag me to a couple of his club meetings, once, hoping I could just… learn to be passionate about something because he was. Suffice to say it didn’t work out that way, but…”

“But we weren’t _all_ bad, I hope.”

“No, I still came out ahead. I didn’t pick up a hobby, but I made a friend.”

“My blushes, Glen, egads.” Germaine goes theatrically flustered. 

“I don’t suppose I’ll ever really know, now, whether… well. Suffice to say. I’ve got more time now to figure out what I’m interested in, the new job’s not so taxing. I have lots of time to read. And if that’s not really enough… I’ll join a sports club on weekends, I’ll learn to knit, I’ll take up… cooking. Until I find something that clicks.”

“My vote is for your taking up cooking. We’re both rather reliant on our housekeeper at present, when she comes in, she cooks. Lovely woman-- discreet. Italian.”

Glen mouths the word ‘our’, with a bemused look, but doesn’t protest aloud.

“You could learn from any of us who take turns doing the cooking for the book club.” Jack offers. “I wouldn’t mind showing you, and I’m sure Abram would be pleased. Stephen… well, he’d teach you, of course, but I’m not sure you could handle being in his kitchen.”

“If Jack could talk me through doing anything in the kitchen, he can teach you.” Llewellyn nods, reaching out to place a hand on Jack’s. “As I’d said, I’m not… but.”

“A man who clearly enjoys a good meal as much as you do and you never learned, either?”

“I can feed myself. I don’t have access to a kitchen at present, but I can make a serviceable meal over a fire if I’m out camping.”

“Well, that’s slightly more heartening to hear than that you’ve been living off of peanut butter and pretzels without me.”

“I know you’re about to disapprove of this, but if I dipped the pretzel _in_ peanut butter instead of eating them separately…”

“How did I fall in love with this man?” Jack groans.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” He tuts, turning that _look_ on him now, that impossibly fond look. He feeds him a bite from his own plate, broccoli dragged through the gravy. “You know exactly how.”

“ _I_ know exactly how.” Glen laughs. “I think I was there, for the start of it.”

“It’s more than that.” Jack says, and the look in his eyes is soft, his voice is soft, and his hand as it moves up to Llewellyn’s cheek is warm. He can feel the working of his jaw as he _chews_ , and there’s a curious intimacy in that. 

Well, given Jack’s more prurient interest in feeding him, maybe it’s not so curious, that it should feel intimate. It doesn’t feel so intimate that he can’t bear it, in front of the others-- not given that the others are Glen and Germaine. If it were dessert again, he thinks it would be too much. They’ve only really gone so far with dessert. True, he’d been… _provocative_ , the once, in Jack’s office, but it had been Jack’s _office_ , there had been an understanding that it couldn’t go beyond a bit of flirtation, a light come-on and a promise for the future. At the very least, he thinks the fact that it is broccoli keeps it from being so sexual that either of them couldn’t handle themselves. It’s very good, especially with the sauce, but it doesn’t inspire lust. 

Llewellyn swallows-- watches the way Jack’s gaze flickers down to his throat, and then away from him entirely, the way he blushes. 

Perhaps not even broccoli is entirely un-sexy.

The rest of dinner passes pleasantly, anyway-- if either Glen or Germaine notices a frisson of something between them, they chalk it up to the evening they have planned and consider it fair. And there’s coffee after dinner, and one round of cards, and then as Glen deftly shuffles the cards together after, Jack rises, trails his fingertips across Llewellyn’s upper back.

“You’ll have to excuse us.” He says, fighting his smile for control of his face when Llewellyn scrambles up to his feet, eager to be led. “Gentlemen. Good evening.”

“Have fun.” Germaine gives them a little affectation of a wave. 

“You, too. Enjoy your game.”

“ _Hardly_ the same.”

Jack just grins, and takes Llewellyn’s hand, to pull him along. Not that he needs pulling, but it’s nice, it feels right. After all, Jack is his guide into this, is he not? And it is a sweet thing to fall into his wake.


	18. And When I Kiss You Just Say to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The continuation of an evening...

“If you want the water closet first, while I get the tub filled, feel free.” Jack says, gesturing to the door in the back corner of the lavish bath. 

“While you get the tub filled?”

“Yes. I thought… it would be pleasant. We can actually both fit in this one, and… you might find it easier to relax.”

Llewellyn nods. It is a fair point, they can’t really share a bath at Jack’s, and certainly not at his own place. And it would be nice…

They take turns watching the tub fill. Jack lights candles, turning the lamps down-- Llewellyn suspects that while he’d been availing himself of the other facilities, one of the fancy jars and bottles had been opened and something fragrant added to the water. Jack turns the water off, when it’s full enough, turns to begin stripping Llewellyn of his clothes. He pushes the suspenders from his shoulders, his hands running over Llewellyn’s chest in a few broad, sweeping arcs, before he unknots his tie, undoes his buttons one by one. His lips graze Llewellyn’s jaw as he strips his shirt away entirely, their bodies close, the room slightly steamy, dimly lit, scented with… lilac, he thinks, and rose. 

They don’t speak. There’s something sacred in the silence here. Jack tugs his undershirt up until he can get at the hem and roll it upwards, hands warm where they meet his skin. He is deft and sure as he undoes his trousers, as he sinks to his knees to strip him of those, of his underwear, his socks. He brushes soft kisses to his thighs, and then when he rises, to his chest, to the scar on his upper arm. Then, he stands and allows Llewellyn to do the same in return.

His hands feel clumsy by comparison, when he tries to undress Jack. He feels as if even now he stumbles over buttons. Jack strokes the side of his neck as he works, soothing him… or teasing him. Some of both. He eases his undershirt off him next, lets his own hands wander Jack’s torso before he continues to strip him.

He gently pushes both trousers and underwear down, lets one thumb gently brush over the soft, heated skin at the root of Jack’s cock. Lets his lips slide, soft, against his cheek. He can feel Jack’s shivery sigh, the hand that winds into his hair to hold him close. The long moment of breathing each other in, after so many nights spent apart, so many goodbyes tinged with longing.

He drops down to one knee, presses his nose to the crease of one thigh as he removes Jack’s socks. 

When he does rise, Jack touches his cheek, meets his eyes, all simmering heat. The slightest quirk of his lips that speaks volumes even still. He climbs into the bath, extends a hand to steady Llewellyn. He settles there between his legs, cradled against his body, the heat soaking into constantly-stiff muscles. His knees stick out-- every now and then, Jack cups a handful of water and pours over one or the other. He rubs at Llewellyn’s chest, urging him to relax with every attentive touch, every little cascade of warmth, every soft, nuzzling kiss. 

“How are you feeling?” He asks at last, breaking the soft quiet of the bath, his voice soft and low.

“Good. Very relaxed. And… yours. Connected to you.” He reaches back, stroking Jack’s cheek. “It feels like… I’ve been sinking into you. And if you went into the other room and I was here alone, I would still know… every beat of your heart. I would just _know_.”

“I think I know what you mean. I feel like the world’s gone away and left us to a little peace. Can I wash your hair, while we’re here?”

“I think I’d like that.”

“Good. Because I _want_ to.” He kisses a spot behind Llewellyn’s ear, before urging him a little more upright so that he can start working through his hair. “There’s my lamb…”

“Mm… you’re so _good_ to me, sweetheart…”

“And you’re going to let me be?”

“Yes.” He sighs. The tension has so drained out of him, soaking in the bath, but if it hadn’t, the feel of Jack massaging his scalp and finger-combing through his hair would do the trick. It’s not possible to deserve this kind of bliss… but then, he doesn’t think it’s possible to deserve the misery he’s faced, either, so if his life is to be in extremes, he may as well have bliss also.

He wants to be able to accept this. As he navigates how best to love Jack, he wants to be able to accept all the ways his love comes. Knowing now how long he’s reached for love and been denied the chance to give it, knowing now how much they share, in that experience of loneliness… How could he deny Jack now the thing he knows the lack of too well? How could he do anything but love him, with his whole heart, with everything he has? To make up for love lost or love denied, for both of them?

Jack is thorough with him, and careful, taking a barely-damp flannel to keep the suds from dripping into his eyes, and when he’s finished, Llewellyn taps his thigh.

“Turn around with me? I’ll do yours?”

“That sounds nice.”

The process of turning around is trickier than he thinks it should be, but they manage without injury. Jack immediately relaxes against him as they settle, guiding Llewellyn’s arms to wrap around a moment before he starts on his hair, and he’s happy to hold him, just hold him… to feel the way Jack breathes easy in his arms. 

“You’re going to take care of me, too?” He hums, cuddling into Llewellyn’s chest, head on his shoulder. 

“Yes. Always. Jack, forever. I’ll take care of you.”

“You’re so sweet to me, you really are.” He trails his fingers up and down Llewellyn’s arm. “Whenever I open my door and see you there, no matter what kind of day I’ve had, I’m… light. And life is easy… as long as we’re inside, and safe, then it’s easy.”

“I’m hardly easy.”

“No… maybe not. No one is. You make everything else easy, though. You make me happier. Loving you is easy. Even if living our lives is hard, loving you… it’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

“I don’t think I could have stopped myself from loving you.” Llewellyn nods, begins running wet fingers through Jack’s hair. The pomade has loosened over the course of the day and the evening, but it still needs washing out. “When we met, it felt too… _too_. I kept thinking about you. I didn’t know what _to_ think about you. But I couldn’t stop. Not until I could see you again… and… I haven’t stopped since.”

Jack hums, a deep, pleased sound, as Llewellyn works a lather into his hair. He can see the appeal, in all those little things Jack does-- does he look so relaxed, so happy, when Jack massages him? Even at the odd angle he has to view his face from, he’s beautiful, he’s beyond beautiful. 

“I was thinking about you, too. The night you showed up on my doorstep… I couldn’t forget about you. I didn’t think I would see you again… but I was thinking about… how you let me go. And how you looked at me. And how I half-hoped, that I wasn’t wrong about those looks. But I didn’t think you’d come find me. I didn’t think either of us was going to be so brave… I’m so glad you were.”

“You were worth it.” He wraps his arms around him again, cradles him close. Has to just hold onto him a moment longer against the idea of a life where he hadn’t gone to see him, against the idea of a life where he hadn’t let him go, where they hadn’t caught the real killer, the idea of a life where he hadn’t spent his winter warm in Jack’s home. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“I know.” He twists around, their bodies sliding together in the water, until he has his arms around Llewellyn’s neck, until he’s kissing him. “I know you will.”

They kiss a while longer, before he manages to get Jack’s hair rinsed clean.

“All right.” Jack sighs, pulling back, arms resting on Llewellyn’s shoulders. “Now that you’re relaxed… Any time that you aren’t comfortable, we can change, but this is where… this is where you decide if you can handle the, uh, necessary preparations or not.”

“I want this. Jack, I’m not afraid of… of whatever goes into making love with you.”

“It’s just-- it can be uncomfortable. And I’m not sure if it’s better if I do it for you or if you have privacy for it-- I mean, I think it’s best if I do, but that’s only because I’m on this side of it, if I were _receiving_ I think I’d want to take care of myself…”

“ _Jack_. I told you how I got the scar on my arm, I really don’t think there’s any amount of uncomfortable this could be that would put me off.”

“I just… I don’t want it to be… bad, for you, and it’s not for everyone.”

“Is it like getting shot?”

“ _God_ no. It’s like a warm water enema. I mean, it _is_ a warm water enema. The rest is actually fairly pleasant, once you’re relaxed.”

“Well, then I think I can bear it.” He leans after Jack, to kiss him. “For what it’s worth, if I had to be shot again in order to make love to you, I’d bear that, too.”

“Don’t.” Jack presses two wet fingers to his mouth, gives him a look that truly is stern when he nips after him. “Don’t-- not that, please? Don’t joke about that.”

He gives his hand an apologetic kiss. “I won’t. Sorry. I won’t.”

“I just… I can’t think about that, Llew. I really can’t.”

“It was poorly spoken.” He kisses that same spot in further apology. “It was spoken without thinking. The last thing I want-- I _am_ sorry. And I promise, I’ll be careful with myself, _for_ you.”

“I just…” Jack nods, and lets Llewellyn pull him closer, hold him long. “I need you to not get shot. Again. _By_ someone. Badly, or-- or because of-- I need you to not get shot.”

“I will do everything in my power not to be. Sweetheart, I’m sorry, I am. I-- of course you can’t think about it, I-- I couldn’t either, think of anything happening to you. I’m going to be careful. I promise you.”

Jack softens, and kisses the end of his nose before straightening the rest of the way up. “All right. All right. Enough being silly for me… we have an evening planned, one you’ve told me you have no reservations about.”

“You’re not silly. But yes, we do. And I need my lover to guide me…” He strokes along Jack’s jaw, does his best to be as outwardly warm and reassuring as he means to be. ‘Reassuring’ has never been his forte, and historically, neither has ‘warm’, though he has felt warmth keenly. Has been cut deep by so much he’s never known how to share with someone. But he thinks Jack sees him.

He lets Jack direct him, and he lets Jack handle quite a lot of the necessary steps. Something else the Llewellyn Watts of a month or two ago would have been unable to deal with-- he wouldn’t have been able to do for himself, and he wouldn’t have been able to accept help, they could never have gotten off the ground if Jack had asked for this first. He doesn’t think he could have done this with anyone else, he can’t _imagine_ doing this for someone casual, not that he thinks he’s the kind of man to want ‘casual’. 

“And all this-- I understand the reasoning, it makes perfect sense, but it’s…”

“A lot of fuss?” Jack drops a kiss to his spine, one of several. “I’ll let you decide how much or how often you think it’s worth the trouble, when we get to bed. How do you feel right now?”

“... Incredibly clean.”

He laughs, and kisses Llewellyn’s back again. “Not inaccurate. Come on. Get a towel on.”

Jack gathers their clothes up, just bundled in his arms, towel around his waist-- with the only other people in the house having made an agreement to stay downstairs until late, there’s no reason not to make the dash from bath to bedroom thus, and having gotten so clean, the idea of putting the day’s clothes back on is less than appealing. Although Llewellyn supposes that even if they didn’t have every expectation of the upstairs hallway being empty, the towel offers enough modesty. He’s been in locker rooms. 

Llewellyn still cracks the door just slightly first to check the coast is clear, but it feels like a courtesy more than a necessity. The corridor outside the bath is shockingly cold, going from the built-up steam heat to the rest of the house. Music drifts up from downstairs, ‘And the Band Played On’, and laughter. He doesn’t imagine they’ll be heard. At least, not going down the hall-- it remains to be seen how loud they’ll be once they get properly started, but they’ll be in a room with solid walls, and far enough away.

In the room, Llewellyn gets the fire going while Jack sorts their dirty clothes into their respective overnight bags, and he wipes the bits of bark from his hands on a damp corner of his towel, before letting it fall, beaming at the whistle from over by the bed when he does so.

“Oh, like this view?” He turns slowly.

“I love this view.” Jack is just as bare, his own towel folded in half and laid over one of the bed’s many pillows-- or possibly two of the bed’s many pillows-- about halfway down the bed. An open jar nearby. “Come here. And let me love you.”

Llewellyn doesn’t suppose he needs any help figuring out where he belongs. He makes himself comfortable, and sighs as Jack starts by rubbing his neck and shoulders. After the bath, there’s little tension to work out, but the kneading feels so good he can’t bring himself to protest on that point. He has such strong hands… strong, and so careful. And then they go from kneading his shoulders to kneading his backside, and the mood turns on a dime, relaxation to arousal. He knows what’s going to happen next. He’d been fuzzy at first on the details, but he knows now. Once they’d begun the hygiene process, Jack had found it easier to detail not just the actions he was taking, but everything he’d do after.

Jack had explained it rather mechanically, but it doesn’t feel mechanical at all, with the kneading, and the sound of Jack’s groan, the way he whispers ‘beautiful’ as he cups and squeezes and _spreads_ him.

“I’m going to take some extra time with you. If we-- if this was something you wanted, more often, I wouldn’t always need to do as much to… open you. But given as you’ve never… And-- I’d like to.” Jack says, one hand still on him, the other withdrawing. “I’d like to spend some time just feeling you.”

“Anything you like.” He sighs. “All yours.”

“Now _that’s_ what I like to hear.” Jack chuckles, and then his finger is there, slick, just lightly circling, and it’s…

It’s how he’d felt, or how he’d _wanted_ to feel, that one time, when it had been friction and Jack draped over his back, and he’d thrilled to the closeness as it was, and felt on the brink of something.

Now, Jack circles around and inward, and he drags back and forth across his hole, and _teases_ , and Llewellyn _wants_. Jack bends over him, lips soft against his back now and then as he teases. Straightens up again between kisses,

“You respond so _beautifully_ , it’s like we were made for each other. Like your body’s been waiting for mine. And mine for you… I never knew how much I was only waiting for you, and the rest was marking time.” Jack says, and then he’s _in_ , and it’s odd but it’s right. It’s _right_. “How do you feel?”

“ _Good_.”

“Good.” He coos, and more comes slowly, lighting sparks as it does. The full length of one deft finger, a spot that’s nearly too much-- Jack doesn’t press, when it threatens to overwhelm, but he does stretch him to accommodate another finger, and the stretch feels easier than he’d have thought. 

His hips move, with the pistoning of two fingers in and out of his body, with the lighting up of each nerve and the urge to do _something_ , something his body knows even if his brain has never fully untangled it. He is suddenly aware of so much, aware of Jack’s breathing, of each chill down his spine and each blossoming moment of warmth where Jack’s lips brush over his skin. Aware of a need deep in him that nothing else could have ever slaked, aware of the heaviness of his cock as it, too, responds to everything he’s feeling. Aware of the bedspread beneath his chest, the contrasting textures in the pattern of thick, plush chenille and slick-smooth satin. 

“Llewellyn… Llewellyn, you have no idea… you have no idea, the way you _feel_. Even just to do this, I could… I could all night, I’d be happy.”

The words ‘all night’ have his stomach flipping over, he feels a slight whine at the back of his throat, an inner push-pull at the notion. He’s not sure he could _take_ all night, he _wants_ to take all night. He wants to take Jack’s cock.

“I’m ready, I’m ready for you.”

“Oh… you’re _beyond_ ready, I know. I just can’t stop doing _this_.” Jack twists his hand just so, Llewellyn sees stars. The sound comes out of him unbidden. He can feel one leg twitching even after the touch is gone. “You really were made for me, for this.”

“Yes…”

“It’s what I love about you.” Jack’s lips brush the back of his neck. His fingers withdraw, leaving him empty, but his whole body is close. “You enjoy the pleasures of life so _fully_ , Llew, you’re so unafraid to lose yourself in your senses. You’re so unashamed of what you love in the world. And I-- I know you have to hide me, but I could never mistake your caution for shame. I could never… not having seen you.”

And he pushes in, and it’s dizzying, feels so _thick_ , but it’s perfect. He conforms to him, the fit is right, the stretch is just enough to please, the fullness just enough to remove coherency. But it isn’t only him, Jack’s groan in his ear sounds the way he feels. It’s time now just to be lost in each other. Just to move on instinct, just to let go. He doesn’t think for a moment about keeping his voice down, he only thinks on how Jack’s answers it. He only thinks of how Jack answers every want in him, his whole body, his whole _self_. His hand coming to wrap around him as he’s close and not yet close enough, his cock finding the spot his fingers had teased, everything coming to a rolling boil.

It’s too much. Everything at once and all of it overwhelming… Jack sucking at the back of his neck, teeth closing on the skin where he can, and that spot within him, and the way Jack’s thumb _teases_ at the head of his cock between strokes that are just this side of too loose to finish him, and the pattern of chenille and how raw-sensitive it leaves his nipples, and the safety in having Jack’s weight on him, and the grunts and groans smothered into the love bites. It’s all too much and then he’s hurtling past the threshold, he exists in a white hot world of ecstasy, completion, excess.

“You’re all right, you’re all right…” Jack’s voice is gentle in his ear when the pounding of his own blood recedes. “I’m going to pull out, it’s going to feel strange, but it’s going to get easier, and then I’m going to clean you up a bit.”

Llewellyn tries to answer. The words that come out _aren’t_.

“Shh, lamb…” Jack kisses the back of one ear, gentle, and then he’s easing out, and there’s a definite _drafty_ feeling without him, he misses the weight of his body as he shifts.

Enjoys the way Jack gives his backside another squeeze, spreads him wide one more time, even if it does open him up to said drafty feeling. The soft groan from him.

“You’re a _sight_.” Jack tells him, awe and adoration, and then the corner of the towel is there to wipe up the slick, cooling dribble that’s slid out of him. “How do you feel?”

“Good. Strange. Cold.”

“Well, let’s dress you.”

“Undid… all that bathing.”

“Yes, it happens. Do you want to get a little cleaner?”

He doesn’t know. He thinks so. Moving feels a little strange-- nothing hurts, he’d imagined it might hurt at the start, or maybe afterwards and be well worth it. It’s only exertion, and the stretch of muscles not accustomed to being stretched so vigorously-- like taking up running had been before his body learned what to anticipate, and been trained in how to give. Based on that experience, he assumes it won’t be so long before everything feels normal once again. 

Jack helps him into his pajama pants-- he has to stop him from trying to help him into the shirt. 

“Aren’t you cold, lamb? Here, let me--”

“Chafing.” He shakes his head, and points out a spot on his chest where the chenille pattern has left a clear imprint, amid the general pinking of the skin. “I’ve been rubbing up against that bedspread.”

“Oh-- I should have turned it down, the sheets might have been kinder…”

“It’s fine. Just… I just need a minute. I did not consider the possibility. Though I think it might have spoiled the mood somewhat if I had stopped the action in order to tape gauze down over my nipples.”

“... Yes, that would have thrown me off a little.”

“It’s-- running. Otherwise just against the inside of your clothing sometimes-- at least, I had that problem. The shirt moves relative to the body, the gauze does not. So… Sorry, this is, this is terrible pillow talk, isn’t it?”

Jack laughs and kisses him. “One more trip back down the hall, I want to clean you up a little better, you’ll sleep more comfortably. And I’ll sleep more comfortably if I can clean my teeth… and… the rest of me, a little bit. Nothing’s hurting? You didn’t look it, but…”

“No, I feel… good, mostly good. I think… I’ll grow accustomed to the strange parts, if we-- if this becomes something we do, now and then? Special occasions?”

“I think so, yes. I felt… a little sickish for a while, after my first time. And then I never felt like that again. It’s just… new. But you… you were beautiful, beloved.”

“And you were… everything. _Lover_.”

Jack’s cheeks pink at that, his smile small and bright and pleased as he escorts Llewellyn back to the bath for last minute ablutions. Wipes him properly clean of various fluids with yet another warm, wet flannel to add to the hamper for used bath linens, tells him what he can about things that might help him feel less strange in the wake of it all.

“I feel strange and uncomfortable… so often, so much, that I don’t mind this strange.” He admits. “It’s… difficult, sometimes. To live in a body and to exist in the world. But it was wonderful, to… to live in _my_ body, while you were… with it.”

“Well. It was wonderful to live in _my_ body, while it had the pleasure of knowing yours. I happen to think you have a very nice body. I’m sorry the world isn’t kinder to it.”

Llewellyn shrugs. “It’s never been kind. But… an unkind world has taught me the value of the kind places in it. You’re a kind place, Jack.”

“So are you.” He smiles, that barely-there smile that’s more eyes than mouth, that’s loving and strong. “You’re the kindest place I’ve ever known. Now come back to bed and let me rest in you a while.”

Who is he to refuse? No one has called him kind in a long, long time. Or… he thinks Jackson did, once, but that was… He hadn’t known how to believe it.

He lets Jack lead him back to bed, where they have more room than they’ve ever had before, to stretch out. Where he falls asleep with their arms wound around each other, their legs entwined, just as close as Jack’s bed keeps them.


	19. Knock Three Times and Whisper Low

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Llewellyn Watts experiences what it must be to be welcomed in by someone else's family, and in which he decides to return that feeling in the one way he can.

In the morning, he still feels a little strange, but it’s not an unpleasant strangeness. It’s a new awareness, perhaps, of parts of himself which had only just been awoken. The fresh understanding of his own pleasure, which he’d thought he understood well enough from all the meetings of hands and mouths and bodies that they’ve managed. 

He opens his eyes to see Jack watching him, gaze soft, smile fond. His hand coming up to Llewellyn’s cheek, when their eyes meet. 

“Morning.” He says, voice sleep rough. “How are you?”

“I’m wonderful.” Llewellyn sighs, turning to be able to kiss the heel of Jack’s hand. “Thank you. How are you?”

“I’m perfect.” He laughs, leans in and kisses Llewellyn’s nose. “I’m not the one who had his first time being taken last night.”

“It just sounds like my first time was better than yours was, that you’ve been so worried about the best night of my life.” He scoots forward and throws an arm around Jack. 

“... Was it?”

“It’s certainly up there. Though the first night I spent with you was also _remarkable_.” He throws a leg over Jack’s as well, for good measure, lets Jack roll them over and kiss him, press him down to the bed. “Mm-- soft bed, warm fire, perfect man.”

“It’s just… I know it can be good, but it’s not always, or not for everyone. I’d hate for you to have had regrets in the morning, for anything we did. I can see that’s not the case.”

“Could we again? It’s early, I’ve nowhere to be… you’ve nowhere to be.”

“Mm, the _weekend_ …” Jack sighs. “Eventually we will have to rejoin the world, you know. And think about breakfast.”

This is not the same as ‘no’, he notes-- judging by the rocking of Jack’s hips against him, the insistent hardness, the answer is not going to _be_ ‘no’. It might just be an ‘I’m only human and after I fuck you into the mattress a second time, I really will want a cup of coffee and something to eat’. Which would be fair. He’ll no doubt be famished himself after a good round, but they never get this. He always has to leave too quickly in the mornings.

Jack breaks away after a few more kisses and the lazy grinding of their hips, finding the soiled towel which had fallen on the floor, the spare pillow, the jar. Ridding them of pajamas. This time, when Llewellyn moves into position, Jack stops him.

“On your back. I hadn’t thought it would be as easy for you, or I’d have asked, last night. I should have, you wouldn’t have chafed… I mean, it’s not as if it’s difficult, I just-- every time I’ve been on my back I get a cramp in my leg, I don’t think I’m quite limber enough… And, if I’m honest, I’m one who… I don’t hate it, but I don’t love it.”

“Then I don’t have to feel like I’m being selfish, if I’d prefer this?”

“I’m not sure you have a selfish bone in your body.” Jack says, getting Llewellyn arranged as he wants him, prompting him to hook a hand under his knee and hold himself up out of the way while he works him open.

Not so much _works_ , this time, more simply _eases_. The muscle is ready to stretch the way it had the night before, it’s just the reapplication of something slick, and a little careful probing.

“You’re sure nothing hurts?”

“I’m sure.” He stretches out a little, making himself comfortable despite the pillows stacked under his hips and the angle he has to keep holding his leg at.

“All right.” Jack gets himself positioned, and Llewellyn can release his leg, because it’s up over Jack’s shoulder now, and it is more awkward to get started, but once Jack is in him, he thinks it’s better.

He’s not sure how much is the angle and how it changes the way Jack hits that spot, and how much is being able to look up at him, how much is the way Jack takes one of his hands, lacing their fingers together. How much is the way that with a little maneuvering and some flexibility on his part, they never have to stop kissing. 

Although, they do-- they do, with Jack’s mouth traveling down Llewellyn’s throat, his chest, and it means there’s nothing to keep his moans muffled-- furthermore, that Jack has discovered exactly how sensitive Llewellyn is and has no qualms exploiting that in order to wring even more noise out of him. It’s the barest closing of teeth around one nipple and the way Jack’s hips _move_ , the way his cock fills him and the way it lights every part of him, and the way Jack’s hand squeezes his and the now-familiar callus at the side of the thumb that caresses his, the way he muffles his own moans against Llewellyn’s chest and the way that his other hand is tangled in Llewellyn’s hair and the way that his shoulder feels under Llewellyn’s other hand, it’s _everything_.

He’s beyond overwhelmed, as he begins to come back down from the peak of it, but Jack isn’t far behind. A couple of thrusts, the hand that leaves his hair to drag through the release on his stomach, and Jack’s with him. Separating, too, is easier this time. He knows what to expect, and it brings relief from that oversensitivity without any new surprises. Just a little space to breathe, to look at each other. To take in the sweat and the mess and the awed look with which Jack regards him.

“I didn’t even touch you.”

“You did nothing _but_ touch me.”

“I mean…” He gestures. “Just from-- I’ve never… I’ve never finished that way. Or finished someone else, without a hand.”

“Oh. It didn’t seem very difficult… not with everything else.” Llewellyn shrugs. “You, ah… you were-- it was good. I liked it.”

“Yes. I mean-- _you_ were-- I mean--” He pauses a moment, and then collapses onto Llewellyn’s chest, seized by a small laugh. “Last night was everything it was and this morning you have me acting like I’ve never had a man in my bed before.”

Llewellyn kisses him. “Should I take that as a compliment?”

“I guess so. You were, though. Good.” Jack rolls off of him once more. 

There’s a basin, they can both wash up a little without sneaking down the hall to the bath. Enough to be able to dress halfway, to get down the hall to finish getting ready for the day. He does feel slightly wobbly, but by the time they’ve cleaned up and dressed he doesn’t think he’s noticeably so.

Downstairs, Llewellyn follows Jack-- and the aroma of coffee-- to the dining room, where Germaine is sitting, with coffee service and toast.

“Breakfast?” He greets. 

“I’ll cook.” Jack sighs. “Won’t take a minute to get us all eggs, at least. You can’t start a day on toast alone. Can _none_ of you feed yourselves?”

“Well… toast _with_ marmalade. And coffee.”

“And I’ll leave the leftover chops from the roast for the two of you, you can heat them up in a pan, just don’t give them too much time or they’ll get to be too well done. Just a little time on each side, you can manage that on your housekeeper’s days off.”

“You’re an angel.” Germaine smiles sweetly over at him.

“I’ll bet you say that to all the boys.”

“Only to all the boys who bring me food. And one or two very special ones besides.”

“And you,” Jack kisses Llewellyn’s chin in passing. “Fix me my coffee while I cook?”

“Just the way you like it.” He promises, touching Jack’s waist, lips brushing his cheek. He watches him go with a smile he suspects is best described as ‘besotted’, before he takes his seat-- a little awkwardly. He doesn’t think he’d call sitting _painful_ , exactly, but it’s strange and not entirely comfortable, he can certainly feel the activity of last night and this morning as he tries to settle more easily on the insufficiently padded chair.

“And how was _your_ night, Detective?” Germaine asks, leaning across the table towards him, as he busies himself with fixing two cups of coffee. 

“It was very pleasant, thank you.”

“Everything comfortable? You two had enough towels, firewood? No amenities lacking?”

“No, the room was perfect, the bath was… perfect.”

“I’m so glad. Though I’m sure if it hadn’t been, you would have found sufficient ways of distracting yourselves.”

“Oh. Yes.” His face heats. Germaine does know… well, enough. He knows enough. And yet, for all the embarrassment, there’s something else. To have his relationship acknowledged, and _openly_ , to be able to have the conversations other men have about their girls and not to have to couch it in other terms. 

It’s different, from the conversations he’s been able to have with George so far… and yet he wonders, couldn’t he invite George to spend time with the others? Perhaps not the book club, perhaps not everyone. He isn’t one of them exactly, but he has enough in common, and Germaine gets on with him well enough. Would George even want that, to be able to talk to other men, about what it is to find a man beautiful, or to love him? He has his own lady friend, and Llewellyn likes her well enough from what he’d seen of her-- at least, she seems to keep George’s best interests at heart, which is all that matters as far as he’s concerned. He might not need to explore what he’s felt for men in a concrete and physical way, but doesn’t it ache not to be able to talk about it? And Llewellyn isn’t under any misapprehensions-- he knows he’s not the best person to talk to, for anything personal. He’s happy to be, he’s happy to try, but would George be happier if he could also talk to other people?

Did Aldous Germaine have a fondness for George because he could tell, that he was something adjacent? Not blinded by knowing George’s romantic history with women, was he able to see that in him?

“You don’t need to be shy, we’ve all been there. Don’t let my current air of celibacy fool you, between boarding school and university, I was popular in my wild youth.”

“I admit I have some difficulty picturing that. You’re possessed of an old soul, Mister Germaine.”

“Having stayed in my house and being seated at my breakfast table, you might call me Aldous. And thank you, I think I am. I like dusty old books, and I like my friendships with dusty old men, and I am a passionate lifelong student of history… so perhaps most of my life has consisted of waiting to be old. But even so, I was young enough.”

“You still are.” Glen says, from the doorway. He’s barechested beneath a dressing gown, and looks half asleep yet. “For whatever it is you’re talking about getting up to.”

“Goodness, Glen, we have _company_.” Germaine-- Aldous-- looks at him and then dramatically away. The turn of his head and the outhtrown arm may be theatrics. The blush, not so much.

“I’m nothing they haven’t seen.” He scratches idly at his chest, pushing off from the door jamb and moving towards the table at a sluggish amble.

“It’s the dead of winter, you’ll catch a _chill_.”

“It’s a warm winter. It’s a warm house.” He shrugs, then sighs. “Somehow, after drinks last night, I tore my sleeve half off.”

Aldous laughs and pours coffee into the last of the cups, passing it off to Glen undoctored. “You don’t seem otherwise worse the wear for last night’s excursion through the liquor cabinet.”

“Just my sleeve and my dignity.” He takes the cup and takes a sip as is, takes his seat just as Jack is bustling back in. “ _Morning_.”

“It certainly is. Birds singing in the trees and everything.”

He slides fried eggs out onto everyone’s slices of toast to a chorus of thank yous, before quickly getting rid of the pan and taking his own seat, dropping a kiss to Llewellyn’s cheek along his way. Llewellyn slides him his coffee, beaming. 

“Glen, you bring me your mending, then, it shouldn’t be anything I can’t fix, and if it is beyond me I know where I can take it. Jack, did you find the room all right? Everything comfortable?”

“Very. And thank you again, for… for giving us a place for this.”

“Yes, well, whatever you got up to this morning, let alone last night, you couldn’t have done in your boarding house. Goodness, but your man’s not shy about it.”

If he’d been blushing before, Llewellyn is sure he’s scarlet now, but he thinks the easy, warm acceptance is worth the embarrassment. There seems to be an openness in this social sphere, around discussing sex, which is different from the way other men talk about sex when they’re away from women and the mood is such to allow for it. He doesn’t know how to define the difference, he only knows he finds few things as uncomfortable as being present for the discussions normal men have about sex and women, but he _wants_ to be comfortable with this. It doesn’t feel crude in the same way, it’s just… well, it’s one of the things that bonds them. He doesn’t think it’s as vital a bond as the emotional side, but loving a man and making love to him are not entirely divorced from each other, after all.

“It was my first time-- and my second time-- to do… what we did.” He shrugs, and stays shrugged a long moment, but still he thinks it’s progress just to say as much aloud. 

“My man…” Jack smiles over at him, fond and rather proprietary, his hand coming to stroke over cheek and stubbled jaw. “My man is not shy about enjoying things. And I am not shy about enjoying _him_.”

They have the luxury here, to not be shy. 

Llewellyn proves Jack’s point about his relative unshyness and general enjoyment, when he hits the yolk of his egg and moans around the bite as it soaks into the toast, thick and unctuous and rich. Jack is there with a napkin before he is, to get what runs down his chin, and he enjoys that, too, being fussed over in front of people. How many times has he seen some couple out in public and thought unkindly on such overt displays as sweethearts leaning across the table when they might have simply said ‘you’ve got something there’, and how much of it was envy, the knowledge that no one would ever do that for him, that he couldn’t even dream? But here, now, Jack fusses over him openly and proudly. _Proudly_ , as if it’s a privilege to reach over and get a little runny yolk for him, and maybe it is.

Maybe it is, because other people get to have that out in the world, and they don’t. Maybe it is, because Jack is just the way that he is, brimming with affection he never gets to show, filled with a frustrated love for so long. Maybe it is, because Llewellyn is a good man and something in him is worth this, though that’s an enormous thought to embrace, the idea that he is meritorious of such care. Enough so that to be the one to offer it could be considered a privilege? He can’t wrap his head around that, and yet is it so strange to think Jack believes so, if he looks at Jack and sees a man who deserves all the care in the world? If he looks at Jack and thinks it is a privilege to be the one to knock at his door with bouquet in hand, to be the one to escort him home even on nights he doesn’t enter the building, just to say at least he didn’t have to walk home alone that evening?

“You know, you could have one of your own. I’m only saying, Aldous, you could.” Jack says, though he doesn’t break his gaze from Llewellyn to speak to him. “You could be as blissfully happy as this.”

“Oh, _blissfully happy_ , I’m certain. I don’t need a man in my bed to be happy, I _am_ \-- I’m very happy. I’m quite happy with my life as it is, I don’t see how wiping egg yolk and toast crumbs from someone’s face is going to make me any happier than I am not doing those things.”

“But you could be happier.” Glen says softly. “You know, I-- if you brought someone around, that’s-- You could bring someone around if you wanted, even with me here. I could just move down to the other end of the hall.”

“I don’t.” He huffs, rising to lean over and top off Glen’s coffee as matter of course. “If I wanted to bring someone around I’m sure I would.”

“I’m only saying, if there’s a man who could make you happy--”

“There’s not. There’s not a man who will make me happier than I am, I _am_ happy. I’m happier than most of us get to be and I am aware of it. I am contented with an unrequited love-- I have enough else in my life to make me a happy man.”

“You seem so sure, for a man who’s never made the offer, that he couldn’t love you. You can’t know if you don’t give him the chance. Look, if you don’t want to ask, what if you had a friend find out what he thinks about you?”

“Oh, God…” Jack groans, head falling back. “Aldous, I’m sorry I brought it up at all. God save you from this comedy of errors.”

“Yes, I’d rather you _not_ ask him about me, I know the answers well enough.” He says, with a look towards Jack which is somewhere between ‘warning glare’ and ‘desperate plea’.

Glen holds up his hands. “I’m only thinking about your happiness.”

“Think about my happiness a little less. Anyhow, if we should be thinking of anyone’s happiness this morning, surely it should be our Detective Watts, on the morning after and _of_ a great personal discovery?”

“Having hosted me in your house and having seated me at your breakfast table, you might call me Llewellyn.” He smiles, though he can’t look up from his coffee cup, can’t take in the way anyone else-- even Jack-- might be looking at him now. He thinks it may take a lot of getting used to, being able to discuss his sex life, but it’s not as if it’s a secret at this point.

“Llewellyn it shall be, then. We ought to have a toast-- though at such an early hour, I fear coffee will have to suffice. Does anyone need refilling? Not you, dear, I’ve heated you up already, I’m just asking our guests.”

“... Oh. So you have, thank you.” Glen says. Llewellyn looks up to catch the faint smile he graces his cup with.

“Barely started on mine.” Jack waves a hand. “Llew?”

“A little top-up, thank you.”

Aldous pours, and resettles in his chair, before lifting his own cup. “Well. To you, then, on having learned a little something new about yourself, and I’m glad it was such a pleasant learning.”

“I don’t know how I feel about toasting my… recent experience.” Llewellyn says, but he doesn’t protest, exactly-- and he can’t help smiling a little, when Jack clinks their cups together gently.

“I don’t know, I think it was an experience worth toasting.” He says, his own smile sweet mischief, adoration in his eyes. He has an arm across the back of Llewellyn’s chair, there to be leaned against for that little bit of warmth and contact. “I may just spend the rest of my life toasting it.”

“And if that doesn’t suit you, then to good friends and good company.” Aldous allows. “But I hope you don’t take any of my teasing very seriously, I am only happy for you both and happy to play my small role in your happiness. And quite frankly, Llewellyn, I’m pleased to see Jack with a more suitable gentleman than some. Clearly, you please him, and he you.”

“Thank you. I-- he does, please me. I mean-- not just, last night.”

“And this morning.” Glen adds, from behind his coffee cup. 

“I mean-- I’m glad you think I’m suitable, for him. I mean to be.”

Is this what it feels like, when you meet a girl’s family and they like you, and approve of a relationship moving forward? Is that what this feeling is? To be told he’s a suitable gentleman? Is this the same happiness other men feel when they’re recognized, accepted, welcomed? No-- surely this is greater. Any other man might expect it, to someday meet a sweetheart’s family, to someday ask for her hand, to someday be granted it by beaming relations. This is something he never thought to ask for. 

Could he introduce Jack to George properly next time, to John? Could he give him this, the experience of being told he’s the right man for him, by the people who care about him and know him best?

“You’re suitable for me.” Jack’s arm moves from the back of his chair to just being around him, hand squeezing his shoulder. “You let me be my whole self.”

“I wouldn’t want any less of you.”

“For what it’s worth…” Glen raises his cup in Jack’s direction. “Depressing as it is for us unattached gentlemen to see you _fawn_ so, I’m glad you were right about this one.”

“Since when have you been a _depressed_ unattached gentleman?”

“Since no one much feels like wild parties this winter, me least of all.” He shrugs. “Ye gods, man, suppose I’ve outgrown being footloose and fancy free? Now that’s a depressing thought.”

“The parties will be back again come spring, I imagine, and with them your good mood. Unless, of course, you’ve really considered the merits of settling down. Gotten a taste for domestic life?” Jack teases.

“If you call two bachelors who can’t cook between them domestic life.”

“ _I_ don’t, and I _strongly_ suggest you learn how, but until then, I told Aldous I’m leaving you some food and just be careful when you heat it back up not to overcook the meat. But domesticity could suit you.”

“I don’t think I’d want to go back to the old days, now. I think it wouldn’t feel right.” Glen shrugs. “But… I think the ship has sailed, on… I don’t know, _real_ domesticity. I think I let too many chances go, when I was still… when I was happy enough being free. It’s like… you don’t imagine you’ll get that future, so you don’t plan for it, so you let yourself be reckless with whoever’s available. You tell yourself you won’t have a home with one man you’re everything to, you couldn’t. I never knew there were old men like us. Before being invited to your book club, I never knew there was a future.”

“It’s not too late for any of us. It never is.”

“It’s-- A friend tried to set me up, once.” He sets his cup down, pushing it away. “With a good man. A serious man, not like the boys who’d go to the same parties and… I wasn’t ready. Let too much time go not making advances. No one but myself to blame if he wouldn’t think of me that way now, I was the one who wanted to make hay, like those days would never end. And then all at once it seems like they ended. I keep thinking, maybe that’s the story of my life. I don’t know what I’ve got until I see it’s slipped my grasp.”

“I think your new career’s a good thing.” Jack says. 

“I can’t complain-- I didn’t know I could get something else to suit me, especially not so quickly.”

“I also think, if you look around, you’ll find there are good men who would be serious about you. That goes for both of you. And that’s all I’ll say.”

There’s a silence for a while, until Aldous suggests they move to more comfortable chairs, being done with breakfast, and Llewellyn mentions having some tentative plan for the rest of the day. Jack raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t argue, as they head up to finish packing their things and getting ties and jackets.

“What plans did you have for the day?”

“New ones. I-- it occurs to me… I know a friend’s schedule. I’d like-- I’d like you to meet him. Or, I’d like… I would like to introduce you to him, as someone important to me.”

“Really?” Jack smiles, moving to straighten Llewellyn’s tie for him. “Which friend?”

“John. He knows people like us, I trust him. I mean… I know there’s no such thing as safe, but if I asked him not to say anything, he would understand and he wouldn’t… Just like I promised not to say anything about his other friend.”

“John Brackenreid? I’ve never actually met him… it’s funny, I’ve certainly heard enough about him from his mother.”

“We got to be close, when he was a constable. I don’t have a family for you to meet. Or clubs I can invite you to. All I have is stationhouse four, and-- But you can meet John, and next time I can introduce you to George _properly_ , as-- as my sweetheart.”

“Llew.” He wraps his arms around him, leans against him with a soft sigh. “I’d like that very much. I’d like for your _family_ to like me. The ones it’s safe to-- I’d like that.”

They stop by Jack’s place, and Llewellyn leaves his overnight bag there, before taking him over to the theatre where he knows John is rehearsing-- and where he knows he’ll have ample opportunity for a break, given the size of his role.

“You take me to the nicest places.” Jack teases, leaning against the wall as they settle into a wait in the alley behind the theatre.

“What can I say? Nothing but the best for you.”

“There are worse places to be. Worse company to be with.” He pushes off from where he’d stopped, to join Llewellyn closer to the stage door, though he stops short when the door swings open. 

“Normally don’t get hangers on until the show opens.” The man greets. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

“If John Brackenreid is free, you can let him know a friend is waiting to take him to lunch.”

He nods and ducks back in, and John appears not much later, confusion lifting and his face lighting as he spots Llewellyn. 

“Detective-- Llewellyn.” He grins, jogging down the steps to extend both a handshake and a firm pat to the shoulder. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I… I was hoping to introduce you to a friend. Actually.” He says, and he knows that this is John, that John asked for his discretion once and so his own can be trusted, but the nerves kick in just the same. “John, this is Jack Walker. Jack, John Brackenreid.”

“I know you by reputation already.” Jack leans forward, offering his hand. 

“I’m sure I’ve heard your name, I just can’t think-- I don’t remember Llewellyn mentioning…”

“I didn’t.” He says, at the same time as Jack speaks.

“If you’ve heard anything about me, it might have been from your mother, she’s a customer of mine.”

“Small world. And then you two know each other?”

“Well, when I say-- when I say ‘friend’, I mean… like how you were telling me your friend Charlie has a… _friend_.” He reaches up, to touch Jack’s elbow, brief. “The sort of friend-- the sort of friend I keep a photograph of, just, not at work.”

Comprehension dawns. Before panic can set in, John shakes Jack’s hand a second time. 

“I’m glad to be introduced, then. Um… thanks. For-- I don’t know. It’s a big thing to trust someone with. Isn’t it?”

“It is. But… I do. Obviously this is… a tremendous secret. Mostly from your father. Which I know is a lot to ask you, but I thought if you could keep that secret for Charlie, you could for me, and-- I wanted to tell you. And… maybe to make my apologies, for never having very useful advice for girl troubles.” He smiles-- or, he’s almost certain he smiles. 

He doesn’t expect to be pulled into John’s arms for a hard hug, though he thinks he recovers himself well when that’s exactly what happens. After half a moment of surprise, he returns it, and stays in it longer than he would have expected himself to.

“Come on.” Jack rubs his back, when they finally separate, when he finds his voice gone and his eyes wet. “You promised this young man lunch. We’re around the corner from a nice enough place for it. And then I’d be interested to hear more about the theatre.”

“Well, I don’t know if Llewellyn told you about my last show…” John begins, and Llewellyn feels something in his chest loosen.


	20. If I Were a Lamp I'd Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Book club meetings, domestic bliss, a career back on track... a perhaps unprecedented level of things going truly well is not always easy to handle, but he's learning not to think things going well now means there's disaster on the horizon.

“Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat…” Jack reads, the slim green book held in one hand, his other hand running through Llewellyn’s hair, soothing. “Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best, only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.”

As with the previous meeting of the book club, they’ve retired early from the dining room, and as with the previous meeting, Llewellyn has folded himself comfortably on the floor at Jack’s feet. He has an armchair near the fire, and it’s so warm to rest against his knees, to be petted at as everyone around the room takes turns reading passages they’d marked, which had spoken to them. In the armchair opposite there’s Aldous, and while Reed and Stephen share the loveseat, Abram sits at one end of the sofa with Anthony lying across it, head in his lap. And then Glen, lying on his back in the center of the plush oriental rug, hands folded over his middle, eyes closed and smiling. Relaxed in his new social sphere.

_Their_ new social sphere. Glen had been used to wilder times, to fun and sex, or at the very least to dancing. Llewellyn had been used to nothing at all, not with other men of his own kind. They’ve both become comfortable here, in the three meetings which had been arranged since their joining. As the newest members, they’d been given the chance to select the next two books, and Llewellyn _has_ enjoyed Leaves of Grass, immensely. Perhaps because prior to the meeting, he’d been reading it with Jack, during evenings they could steal for each other. Taking turns reading poems aloud. Not all equally moving, perhaps, but the ones which have touched him have touched him deeply. He has some idea of what he might present, when they’ve finished discussing Leaves of Grass.

Jack holds the book down, for him to read from, and he lifts his head from his knee, keeps one arm wound around a calf even as he lifts a finger to the page, to find where Jack had stopped.

“I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, how you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over upon me, and parted-- parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and... plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart, and reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my feet.”

He returns his head to Jack’s knee, his gaze unfocused around the level of everyone’s legs, his thoughts wandering off in two directions. One, that he’d read those words out loud in a room full of people, a man’s hand in his hair. That he’d done that and been okay, that it’s safe here because every man in this room knows the things he feels. Two, that they could… when the weather is fine, they could be doing just that. Lying in the grass, in the open air, the two of them. The dream they’ve idly held, the promise of summer. 

Aldous reads the entirety of ‘Sometimes With One I Love’. Glen turns onto his side, raised up on one elbow and partly within Llewellyn’s field of vision, just for the four or so lines of it. He turns back onto his back and recites ‘O You Whom I Often and Silently Come’, rather than reading, magnetically full of feeling.

“That was lovely-- committed to memory?”

“It’s a short one.” Glen smiles, waves a hand. “And I read it… most nights. It’s just become routine. Four lines before I close my eyes. A little ritual for a good night’s sleep.”

“A melancholy poem for a good night’s sleep.” Aldous says. 

“Is it? Maybe. But… it makes one feel not alone. If evening is a melancholy time, a melancholy poem tells you someone else feels the same way.”

“Mm. I agree. A little sadness, in a book, a play, a piece of music, even a painting… that’s how we know we are not alone adrift in the world, but sharing in the greater human experience. Our fellow men feel our feelings, even those which they might not readily show the world. Our most secret shames are not ours alone, our weaknesses are human. At least… at least most. At least-- we know this, it may not be usual but it is still within the bounds of what is normal, for men to feel. Because it has been written, sung, painted, we can know those feelings are in our nature.” Llewellyn says.

It’s mostly true, at least. He has secret shames and weaknesses which he has never seen reflected. But not this one they share. ‘Shame’ is not the word, not now. It was once, but it has been replaced in him entirely, hollowed out of him by fire, replaced with a cautious and secret defiance. He loves this part of himself, fierce and protective. Even if he cannot speak it, even if it lives in twilight, he is glad to be the man he is. He is proud to be. He wouldn’t _want_ to be an ordinary man, and live his entire life not knowing… not knowing how sweet love could be. A life never knowing his perfect match. There isn’t someone, who could love him so well, who he could love so completely. This is the life he wants, even with its dangers, this is the life that makes him happy. 

This is the life which has granted him friends who forgive his oddities, and a lover who embraces them. A life in which he has passions, and talents, and little pleasures. A job which he cares about, which he’s good at. Places where parts of him belong. Standing invitations which he keeps when he can-- shabbos dinners and synagogue services, opportunities to read and discuss and dissect, Jack’s home open to him now at his leisure. He supposes he’s spoiled his invitation with Detective Murdoch and Doctor Ogden… but Murdoch has not been unkind to him since that disastrous dinner. 

The other parts of himself, which he doesn’t see reflected, which he has never found in others enough to understand in himself… he can’t find as much peace with those. Perhaps because he has a home now with men who share his romantic inclinations, and no such community of people who share the exact pattern of living pains and eccentricities-- not affectations, not chosen or changeable-- which form the core of who he is. But… this part of himself, he would not change if given the choice, would not have changed in him.

Jack scratches gently down the back of his head, through the shorter hair there, before returning to card through his curls, and he melts under his ministrations as the others read poems or snatches of poems. Some speak blatantly of love, not all. And of those, not all are so blatantly about men, but they seem to be, often enough. It is a very pleasant way to spend an evening, to be well-fed, warm with wine, and to rest against his sweetheart’s knee, to be petted at as they listen to poetry. There are bits of conversation between, here and there, discussion of whether this or that was meant, but he lets it wash over him this time. He hasn’t got the same depth of opinion on poetry as on Plato-- though as poetry goes, he supposes he’d rate some of Whitman highly. The outdoorsiness of it at times, as much as the themes of homosexual desire, which speaks to him. Perhaps by their next meeting, he might be able to put some of his feeling into words. And then the conversation moves past poetry to all those other things which sometimes veer the group off track, and he drifts through that as well.

He only looks up when Jack taps the end of his nose, meets his eyes and sees his expression shift from fond to adoring. Watches him press a kiss to his fingertips before reaching down to press that kiss secondhand to his lips.

“We should be getting home soon, lamb.” He murmurs. “Especially if you need to stay at your own place tonight.”

“I should.” Llewellyn groans. “I don’t want to. I want you for my bed.”

He returns his cheek to Jack’s knee at that, pressing close. Hears the barely-voiced sound from him.

“And I want you for mine.” His fingers tighten in Llewellyn’s hair, brief, not hard enough to pull. “Stay with me, then. Let me take you home… let me take care of you.”

“Mm. Yes.” He says-- he’s not sure how he could ever refuse, now. Oh, some nights, of course. He’s mindful of their safety, he’s mindful of Jack’s safety. There are nights he couldn’t stay without risking too much. But in this moment, when he feels so contented and relaxed… when Jack has been free to dote on him all night. 

He doesn’t know if this is what other men feel in love, whether it is a feeling peculiar to men of their kind or common among all men. He’s never felt it before. Even when he and Jack had first embarked upon loving each other, his feelings had yet to blossom into this. This things which comes upon him sometimes and leaves him helpless, but not in a bad way-- leaves him pulled to Jack as if by a magnet, needy for him, eagerer than ever before to please him. It doesn’t come out of nowhere-- the desire to please seems to be a direct answer to Jack’s caretaking. The more Jack fusses over him, the more desirous he is of finding ways to repay that care with care of his own, and the more he longs to please him, to be pleased, to stay closer longer. It seems to be a cycle, as best he can say based on their experiences-- Jack will be sweet to him and he will naturally respond with some sweetness of his own, and then Jack will respond, and so on and so forth… 

Funny, to think he had been so afraid of this, not so long ago. It’s such a comfort now that he’s accepted it. It’s a feeling he wants to sink his whole self into, the sense of home and safety that comes when he and Jack are alone… 

He can let himself go with Jack-- not out in public, no, but at home with him, or here among like friends. He doesn’t have to be afraid _all_ of the time, he can breathe here. He can trust Jack’s experience, in knowing what is and isn’t safe, what people see and what they don’t, but here they’re among friends. With Glen and Reed ready to tease them for their open affection-- though always in good fun-- and with the way Abram and Antony will tut over the question of whether they were ever so young, and who will sigh fondly over them, and who will sit across the room displaying all the same affections in their advanced age that he and Jack display now, in their relative youth.

He feels youthful, sometimes, experiencing the thrill of first love. He’s never felt quite his own age before, he is at once so much younger and older than he thinks he ought to be. The concept of age is flawed and depends upon the concept of linear time, which is… a problem, usually. Time is strange and illusory at best. But when he’s with Jack he thinks he feels the way a man in love for the first time is supposed to feel, regardless. His first love, and he thinks his last. He can’t imagine anything like it, he can’t imagine anyone loving him so well. He doesn’t want to imagine-- he has everything he never dared ask the universe to give him.

Jack fusses over him on their way out, as they help each other into overcoats, hats, scarves, and he returns the favor, makes sure Jack is just as bundled up, makes sure Jack has an arm to take as they leave the house, at least until they’re clear of the porch steps. Hails them a cab, as soon as they see one, and offers him a hand getting in. The smile he’s favored with sends him over the moon, the way Jack glances away and bites his lip and beams so bright he seems to light the dark.

Tonight, he doesn’t ask the cab to hold. He goes up with Jack. When the door clicks shut behind them, he wastes no time in sinking to his knees, in resting his forehead there against Jack’s waistband. 

“Llew--”

“Would you? Want me?”

“What’s got into you? All that poetry?” Jack chuckles, but he’s running both hands through Llewellyn’s hair, not soft and gentle, but the way he does sometimes when kisses grow heated, or when Llewellyn is down between his thighs. Not pulling hard, not what he’d call _rough_ , but impassioned. 

“Poetry. Wine. Mm, take your pick. You.” He nuzzles at the front of Jack’s trousers, and Jack lets him, doesn’t direct him any particular way, just keeps stroking his hair. “Let me take good care of you, like you always do for me. Let me?”

“I think it’s a little bit the poetry.” One hand slips down to Llewellyn’s cheek. “I’m yours, beloved. Take care of me.”

Granted permission, he still doesn’t reach up to undo Jack’s fly. He only nuzzles until he can feel Jack responding, until he can press his face to the outline of his firm arousal, breathe him in. Only when Jack can’t keep from rocking against him… He doesn’t tease him any further, just wants to see the control break, wants to feel that need for him come through.

He’s still not a practiced hand at this, exactly, but he’s gained enough experience to feel confident taking the lead in it. Here, where he feels safest, bravest, he feels very capable indeed. He knows enough of the things they both like-- knows that he loves the shape of Jack, loves to feel over the length of him with a light touch, and to focus the attention of his lips and tongue at the head at first. Loves toying with the foreskin, loves sucking at the tip with more finesse than he can employ when he takes more of him in. 

And then, when he’s done all that, when he’s done enough teasing and gone as far as finesse needs to take him, to encourage Jack to _take_ , just a little. To be recklessly sloppy, desperate to please. To moan wantonly around him and to feel the heaviness of his own cock, eager.

“ _Beautiful_ , beloved…” Jack groans, keeps his thrusts shallow and careful. One hand firm through Llewellyn’s hair, the other traveling over his cheek, curving gentle around his throat to feel him swallow. “Look at me, let me see you, gorgeous…”

His eyes flutter open, to meet Jack’s, to see the desire in them and the flush to his face, the slack-mouthed awe he regards him with. 

“Oh-- _Llew_ …” Jack breathes, rocks his hips forward. Even lost to pleasure as he is, he’s well aware of what Llewellyn can take. “Llew, beloved, I-- I want something from you…”

“Name it…” He moans, pulling off just long enough to answer-- though Jack’s hand in his hair stops him diving back in once he’s spoken.

“I-- I want to… Maybe it’s too much.”

“Name it. I’ll take care of you.” Llewellyn promises, wrapping his hand around Jack’s wrist, his other at his thigh. “Name it.”

“You… you would please me.” And Jack sounds almost stunned. “You would do anything to please me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“... I don’t know. No one’s-- Like you do.”

“You do everything to please me. I just want to be as good to you. Take care of you.” He squeezes Jack’s thigh. “You give me everything.”

“I want to finish on your tongue.” The words tumble out, breathless, before Jack can stop himself asking-- though Llewellyn sees the flinch of doubt to follow. And then, when Llewellyn only squeezes gently at his thigh, only strokes his hand, only looks up at him with just as much want and just as much love, he gathers up his courage. “I-- I want you to open your mouth, and-- and to permit me…”

Llewellyn’s mouth falls open. His hand slides up from thigh to hip, to urge Jack on wordlessly. He’s not sure when he’s ever felt so comfortable holding Jack’s gaze so long, so intently, but his eyes flutter closed again at last the moment the head of Jack’s cock touches his tongue once more, it’s all he can do to hold still as bidden rather than return to what he’d been doing. 

He can hear the sound of Jack’s hand working his own cock, the one not still in his hair. And then the burst of his release across his tongue. He lets it sit there, drinks in the shaky moan before swallowing, and then Jack is kneeling, too, is cradling his head, kissing his face. Jack is palming his cock through his trousers, drawing him out and offering him the world.

There is nothing he can ask for except this, Jack’s boundless love and gratitude, his nearness and his touch. The rush of making love there in the doorway.

Sleep is sound, after. Jack is effusive in his attentions come the morning, starry-eyed. Jack feeds him breakfast, close and cozy, it leads to their falling back into bed to lazily rut against each other, to kiss and touch.

“Are you going to be late for work?” Jack asks, but it’s not as if the answer will change anything now, not with Jack’s body pinning his to the bed, Jack’s hands exploring his hands and shoulders as Llewellyn’s cup Jack’s ass, help drive his thrusts.

“I’ll come in when I come in.” He groans, leaning up to nip at Jack’s throat. “I’ll say my alarm clock needs repairing.”

“I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Mm, should have thought of that before you put your fingers in my mouth, you knew we’d end up back here.” He grins, grins even harder when Jack ducks his head, teeth scraping along his jaw, tongue hot. 

“You… you’re too accommodating. You allow me my strange desires.”

“I like your strange desires.”

“ _Dangerous_ , you make me love you too much.” A sharp nip to his earlobe, a gentler nibble to soothe after. “One of these days I just won’t let you go at all. And we’ll never leave this bed again.”

“Oh… I’m looking forward to that day.” He shifts, plants his feet, rolls his hips up against Jack just so. “ _Ohh_ , Jack…”

“Llewellyn… Llew… Give me your hand?”

He does, immediate, smiles as Jack laces their fingers together. “Done. Anything else these hands can do for you?”

“I like your hands…”

“I never would have known.” He steals a kiss, and then sighs into it as Jack deepens it. “Mm… and they like you.”

“You have _big_ hands. Strong. But… you’re so delicate, too.” And Jack’s slips free of his, only to wrap around his wrist. It feels warm, safe. “You’re everything. And it means… I can be everything. We can just… _be_.”

He lets his free hand slide up Jack’s back, hitches a leg around him to keep him close. “You were always everything… the first time I saw you…”

And then Jack’s mouth is on his again, and he thinks he could quite happily not go into work at all.

Not that he thinks Jack would let him, when he’s so recently recovered the trajectory of his career. But… it’s enough to let himself be late, on a day where Jack won’t go into work but he ought to.

They shower, after making love, and then Jack sits him down, half-dressed, bids him to stay, and Llewellyn does so without question. Winds up leaning his head back against Jack, while Jack brushes a thick lather of shaving soap over his jaw, his throat. It’s more relaxing, to let Jack shave him, than anything else. He doesn’t like going to a barber, he doesn’t like doing it himself, but Jack is…

Jack is allowed to touch him intimately, it feels safe, comfortable. Jack is able to soothingly trail fingertips over his skin and make him feel at ease. And… he trusts Jack with a razor more than he trusts himself. 

He simply sinks into the comfort of being where he is, in Jack’s place, leaning against him, knowing he’s never been safer than he is with Jack seeing to him. The razor scrapes over his skin, the shave not too close-- not so close as to look too out of place on him, if a little neater than usual. Jack wipes up any bits of lather after, with a corner of the towel he’d draped around his shoulders.

“Am I handsome?” He asks, when Jack has finished.

“Devastatingly.” Jack bends over him, kissing his forehead. “Put your shirt on and go to work, lamb.”

“Freshly sheared lamb.” He smiles, rising to his feet. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

He leans in to kiss Jack’s cheek, before dressing. Jack fixes his tie, helps him into his jacket and his coat, before slipping his neat-wrapped lunch into his coat pocket. 

“You’d better get a move on.” Jack caresses his face. “Will I see you soon?”

“As soon as I can get back to you.”

“Good. Miss you already.”

Perhaps it’s hyperbole, but somehow he thinks not by much. By the time he’s left the building he wishes they were together again. By the time he’s at stationhouse four, he feels an ache which seems beyond the usual state of missing Jack a bit when they aren’t together. After all, they’re adults, capable of existing without each other when there’s work or errands to keep them apart. This day, however, he keeps thinking back to being fed, being shaved. He keeps wishing he was kneeling on the rug between Jack’s armchair and his fireplace, having his hair played with, being read to. He keeps wishing he was there, just… _there_. To set the table and pour the wine and help with washing up after a meal, to do whatever little things he could in return for all the ways Jack cared for him. To learn how to return the massages Jack insists on giving, when he notices he’s in need. Just to walk with him and talk with him and feel like somehow he could make him safer rather than putting him at risk, if he could… 

He doesn’t know. He just _wants_ , more keenly than usual.

The next day is easier, though that’s not to say it’s easy. It’s a day when they can’t see each other. The day after that, though… the day after that?

The day after that, he’s put in charge of holding the fort at the stationhouse-- this time, because the inspector is working a big case with Murdoch, outside of the city, and not because he’s vanished and there’s no one else and short notice. He can reach him with anything important, there’s no reason to call in a temporary replacement from outside, it’s just…

It’s just that he’s been asked to keep things under control. He’s been asked to be the one to delegate other cases which might come in, to field questions as they come, to… 

To prove that he _can_ do the job Inspector Brackenreid believes he can do. 

It’s daunting, to say the least. Hence, his shutting himself in Brackenreid’s office and hunching over the telephone.

“Walker and Smythe, butchers. How may I help you?”

“Jack. It’s me.”

“What’s wrong?” Jack’s voice drops to a quieter tone, he imagines him turning away to provide some privacy to the conversation.

“Nothing. Or maybe a lot. Depending on how the day goes. I, ah… I’m in charge? Of the stationhouse?”

“What?”

“Just until this case is settled, it’s got the inspector out in the countryside dealing with something, I don’t-- I don’t really know. He took Detective Murdoch, which is understandable. He left me in command, which is… less so.”

“He believes in you.” Jack says, and he can hear the pride in it, the curve of his smile. Not overly restrained, even. “I believe in you, for that matter.”

“I just… wanted to tell you. And… I’ll be very busy. So… I won’t be able to swing by today on my lunch, or perhaps tomorrow, or-- I don’t know. And tonight’s too soon, at your place, but-- if I called on you tomorrow night? I may be working too late to walk you home…”

“I’ll wait for you. I’d like to walk together, even if it’s late. I-- What if we went out, to celebrate?”

“Celebrate?”

“Yes, celebrate. You don’t think it’s worth celebrating?”

“I really don’t know.” He laughs softly. “If you’d like to. I’ll-- tomorrow night. I’ll come and meet you.”

“You’ll do just fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. Llew? Well-- you know.”

“Yes. Yes, you, too. You-- you know. What I would say. If-- You know.”

“I know. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.” 

It’s still a moment, before they hang up.


	21. You're My Castle, You're My Cabin, and My Instant Pleasure Dome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, life is mostly soft, and mostly good, and people love you. And it makes the stresses easier to bear.

He meets Jack late, in the dark of the shop they steal a kiss, an embrace, Jack’s arms tight around him. 

“You deserve this.” He whispers, and his lips brush Llewellyn’s cheek once before parting. 

“It’s not anything-- I mean, it’s… a couple of days of desk work.”

“It’s not _nothing_.” Jack insists. “It shows he trusts you. Whatever’s happened in the past and however he’s taken it, he _believes_ in you.”

“I’m just being realistic. I-- yes, it’s… I want him to believe in me. I want him to _like_ me, I want him to trust me, but-- however much faith he puts in me, I won’t be made inspector a decade from now, two... I’m a Jewish homosexual, and I don’t know the first thing about playing nice with stupid people, which I believe is a big part of the job. The city won’t even promote a Catholic, and he’s married to a woman and… and just generally very polite. I think. They will look into me, if I’m put up for it. They-- I can’t accept the offer to go for the promotion if it comes to me, because they will look into me, and they will find you, and-- _Jack_.” Llewellyn cups his cheek. “I won’t risk you being hurt because of it. There are consequences I could handle, but not losing you. Not you being prosecuted, not you being-- being hurt. And that’s _fine_. I’m a good detective. I like being one. I won’t be hurt not to be made inspector. I… will be happy to know that my inspector believed in my ability, and I’ll turn it down with no regrets.”

“You think we wouldn’t be able to hide it, if they had to look into you for the job?”

“They’d put people onto me, we’d have to avoid each other… I-- I don’t want that. I don’t want to go through that just for a promotion, we already have to stay so far from each other so often. To not be able to speak to you for the length of an investigation into my suitability?”

“Well.” Jack sighs, stroking Llewellyn’s face in return. “I’m still proud of you, for being recognized. I’m still excited to celebrate your small victory. Drinks and a bite to eat, the pub up the street?”

“Oh? The place with the pies?”

He laughs, taking Llewellyn’s arm. “See, I knew you wouldn’t mind celebrating.”

They can’t go arm in arm outside, but to the door, at least, and Llewellyn stands by as Jack locks up, scanning the street. It’s not that he ever _expects_ trouble, really. It’s just that he doesn’t know how not to _consider_ it. It’s always a possibility. He’s just not always… keyed into it. But it’s late and Jack is…

But it’s late and Jack shouldn’t _have_ to be vigilant at night, if he’s there to be vigilant for them. And normally when he’s walked him home, it’s been earlier. Maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe an hour or so later is no difference in the amount of trouble they’re likely to see. It’s not exactly a rough neighborhood. But then… sometimes it’s a perfectly nice neighborhood. Things happen anyway. 

Some nights he doesn’t think about them… some nights they’re all he thinks about.

Tonight… he’s somewhere in between. Able to enjoy himself, but cautious in a way that hasn’t got everything to do with being out with his male lover.

Still a lot to do with that, but… well, strangers don’t see them, not as they are.

Strangers see two men ordering dinner, drinks, laughing, discussing work at their respective jobs. They don’t see… They don’t see the way Jack’s eyes sparkle, the coy way he hides his laugh sometimes and the sidelong glance. They don’t see the open invitation in the looks he gives, the heat. They don’t see the way Llewellyn leans towards him, always, the way Jack is his true north even when they aren’t across the table from each other. He leans even when one of them leaves the table for the bar, he keeps his eye on him, he can’t hold himself back from him. They don’t see Llewellyn’s adoration, however it looks on his face.

“Would you really turn down a promotion, if it was offered to you?” Jack asks, as they get towards the end of their meal. “Just-- to not spend the time apart?”

“Yes. I-- it wouldn’t come to me anyway, if it came before… anyone but the Inspector. For reasons enough without worrying about that one, I’d never be put through. So… why torture myself? Why go through the process, why… why spend a week, a month, away from my home? What for?”

“Llew… I-- You think… it could be a month? That you’d have to be away from home?”

“It could be. Likely not, they’d find enough reason to discount me before then, but-- the time I spend away is already too much.” He shrugs. “I didn’t think I would get used to feeling like I belonged somewhere. Now I do. I don’t want to jeopardize that for anything.”

“A room in a boarding house-- even a nice one-- isn’t much home to give up any hope of advancement for.” Jack says, something careful in his tone.

Llewellyn looks down at his plate, sets his fork down and keeps his gaze fixed on an arabesque smear of gravy. “No. It’s not. But my home isn’t a room in a boarding house. It’s a horizon.”

He can see Jack’s elbow on the table, hear the way a sucked-in breath is muffled by the hand he must have over his mouth. 

“Llewellyn Watts, what ever made you think you could say that now, here, where I can’t possibly answer you…” He says at last, voice trembling and low. 

“I’m sorry. Should I-- I’m sorry. I didn’t--”

“Don’t apologize if you meant it. Just… walk me home.”

Llewellyn nods. Jack pays their bill-- he puts in what he thinks is a good fight for it, but he can’t argue with the facts, Jack had invited him out in celebration of his being recognized at work-- and they use the cold of the night as an excuse to walk closer than they might have. They don’t speak, he doesn’t dare, until he happens to see the tear tracks as they pass under a streetlight.

“Jack--?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Whatever I said wrong-- I don’t always-- I hardly ever-- But I’d never have done it on purpose, and if you tell me what it was, then I can try not to do it again.”

“You-- _wrong_?” His shoulders shake, just once, his mouth twists into something that isn’t quite a smile, or not his smile. He pulls Llewellyn two steps forward, out of the halo of lamplight, but he can still make out the wetness now he knows to look. “You didn’t say something wrong. You just… you just gave me all I’ve ever wanted, in the middle of a pub, like it-- and I just wish… I wish things could be easier for us. I wish I lived in a world where, when a man tells me I’m home to him, however he puts it, I could kiss him. I don’t know what else to do with everything you make me feel sometimes.”

Llewellyn stops them. The street is empty enough-- not for a kiss, never that, but for some things. He moves to face Jack, drawing out his handkerchief, taking him by the chin and gently dabbing at the tracks of his tears. Jack huffs out a quiet sound, barely a sound at all, and lets him do it.

“All you’ve ever wanted?” He asks, feeling rather stuck on the point. He’d been content enough with the idea that truly pleasing Jack might be the work of a lifetime, might be a continual process of trial and error as he looked for whatever little things he could do. He hadn’t considered he might hit upon the thing that would please him entirely in one fell swoop.

“Just to make a home. For a man who thinks I’m enough. For a man who doesn’t want anyone else. Who doesn’t… who doesn’t act like I’m some housewife just because I like to take care of him, I don’t want to be a housewife, I’m a man and I have a business, and my business is important to me, but I-- just, a man who doesn’t ignore parts of me to make me fit. Just to make a home for a man who sees me and respects me, who wants what I can offer. Just to make a home for you. And… maybe, to be needed.”

“I need you.” Llewellyn nods, and there are more tears, he does his best to take care of them. “I need you. I’ve been… so tired for so long, and I didn’t know it. I didn’t know there was another way to be, until you showed me a home.”

“Llew-- _please_.” He laughs wetly, sniffles. “Save anything else you have to say, because I really can’t take it. Not out here.”

Llewellyn nods, and once he thinks he’s dried Jack’s tears, or at least enough, he tucks his handkerchief into Jack’s pocket, and returns to walking at his side.

Inside, where it’s safe, he finds his arms full of the man, and he holds on tight in return.

“I love you.” Jack whispers against his shoulder, squeezing him even tighter just a moment. 

“I love you. I-- and I don’t want a housewife. I want to come by and watch you work when I miss you, when I have a break. I just… I love _you_ , Jack. I’m lucky to have you.”

“I’m lucky to have you. We-- we were lucky to find each other. You needed a home and I needed to be one, and we… we’ve both been… we know what it is not to fit. Even in queer company, to be strange… to want all the wrong things. We needed to find this. And-- Llew, I know… I know you’re considering so many things, when you say you won’t seek a promotion. I know it’s not just me… but it means something to me, that-- that I’m a part of your considerations. That you… you’d rather have me.”

“I’d rather have you than anything. I’ve thought… I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about what my life would be if I lost everything else.”

“Oh?” Jack prompts.

“I would… I would grieve the job I have if I lost it. And I would be ashamed to come to you with nothing. But… I would come to you, because you…” He blows out a hard sigh. “You could bear me through the loss. But I couldn’t bear the loss of you.”

“Then I’d better not let myself get lost. Llewellyn… it’s late. Stay?”

“I’ll have to slip out early. I’m temporarily an important man. But… yes.”

“Well, my temporarily important man.” Jack tugs him further in. “Wake me early, then.”

This time, they shed their clothes quietly, separately. Jack finds Llewellyn a pair of pajama pants he can wear, just along with his undershirt, gives him a look that somehow manages to communicate that however much he prefers him without, he appreciates he needs his rest. Rest he gets with Jack laying against him, idly nuzzling at and stroking the little bit of chest hair that his undershirt leaves on display.

“Mm. Mister Walker, please control yourself. You’re going to make it very difficult for me to get to sleep.” He teases. “If you’re going to be pawing at me all night...”

“You can arrest me.” Jack mumbles against his collarbone. “For molesting a police officer. Take me in, Detective, I’ve made my bed and now I have to lie in it.”

“Can’t. Left the handcuffs at work. Besides… then I’d have to write up a report about how much I liked it.”

He laughs, and settles with his arm around Llewellyn’s waist. “Well… next time don’t leave them at work, then. For now, I guess I’ll just have to behave and let you sleep.”

Llewellyn is no longer sure he _can_. He could have, with the petting-- it was as much soothing as it was anything else, he could have drifted off quite happily with Jack just gently stroking his chest. It’s the playful lilt to his voice over the subject of the handcuffs, and the feeling that he’s missing something important which has him staring up at the ceiling.

Their playful back and forth was one thing, and it wasn’t _new_. And he likes that Jack is playful about it, he thinks if he didn’t sometimes make those jokes, then Llewellyn would have had a few more sleepless nights of fretting over how they had first met, and whether he could forgive himself for being involved in Jack’s arrest, how he could justify pursuing a man when he’d contributed to his misery as he had-- and he had, no matter how he’d protested his innocence, he’d been the one to bring up evidence against him in the first place, he’d been the one to see through the thin cover story, and he’d been _there_ , during something painful, and humiliating. If Jack hadn’t had a sense of humor, he’s not sure how he’d have dealt with the guilt. Doctor Ogden had been an immense help once, but there’s no way he might have framed that particular issue… none he can think of.

And besides, that… that had sounded _different_. It hadn’t been an earnest request, exactly-- there was nothing in Jack’s tone which suggested he truly _meant_ that Llewellyn ought to bring handcuffs home. Only that there’s a joke there that he doesn’t get, to the idea that he might. 

And do what, then? Simply… act the joke out? He doesn’t like that thought. It’s fun when it’s a little teasing, but the idea of actually putting Jack in handcuffs in any capacity, he doesn’t like that.

“Lamb?” Jack lifts himself up, kissing the end of Llewellyn’s nose. “You’re thinking too loud. Something wrong?”

“No.” He frowns. “Yes. But… it’s not-- I don’t know how to explain it.”

“All right.” He strokes his cheek once, before settling back down. “You can talk to me, if you need to. I’m not asleep yet.”

“Mm.” He gets an arm around Jack, squeezes him to thank him for being willing, but he can’t. Whatever it is Jack had meant to communicate by tone, he’d considered it obvious enough, and he knows Jack is patient, and kind, but he can’t ask him to explain an obvious joke, he can’t say ‘this thing you thought was amusing, I don’t understand, I am a failure as a human being’-- which he _knows_ Jack would never say of him, but he has _felt_ it. He has failed to understand a thousand jokes and every time he’s asked to have the joke explained, he’s been made to feel wrong for it. Sometimes even been told there was no joke, when it had been obvious enough from everyone’s behavior that there had been. He’s always the one man left out.

“Love you.” He adds.

“I love you. Jack? I-- You didn’t… _mean_ that you wanted me to… bring handcuffs… here?”

“No, not really.”

“Okay.” He says, though his heart is still going too fast, and there’s no way Jack could miss that, he’s resting right over it.

“We could if you wanted to.”

“If I wanted to… bring them home.”

“If you wanted to put me in them.” Jack laughs, soft, and kisses him, right over his pounding heart. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“ _No_.” He holds Jack tighter. “I-- I don’t. I don’t… want you to-- I don’t want to see you like that. Or-- do that to you. It would be… different, from joking about it.”

“All right.” Another soft kiss, Jack’s fingertips toying with the neck of his undershirt, twisting the fabric. “That suits me fine, honest. I was only teasing. Or-- if you would rather… we could do it the other way around.”

“I don’t.” He says quickly. 

“Right. You’ve… you’ve also been…”

“It’s-- not to do with the time I was under suspicion. It’s not important now. I just… don’t want to.”

“That’s _fine_ , beloved. It’s not something I wanted. I’d have been willing, if you did, but it’s… I just like teasing you sometimes, that’s all. It doesn’t have to mean much.”

"All right. Okay. That’s… good. I-- I love you. I’m sorry, I’m overthinking this.”

“I love you. And now… you’ve thought about it enough. Time to let go, time to sleep. I won’t ask you to-- if I ever mention it again, or if anyone else does, about us, now you know… it’s just teasing.” 

He resumes stroking Llewellyn’s chest, and this time, Llewellyn lets it soothe him down into sleep. He still doesn’t understand what the appeal is supposed to _be_ , in the idea of putting each other in handcuffs. But he doesn’t need to-- he just needs to understand Jack isn’t asking him to.

He doesn’t care for waking early, but by the time he’s dressed and showered, Jack has made breakfast, as well as lunch, both portable.

“All right, temporarily important man.” He kisses him at the door. “Breakfast. Lunch. And I still have your handkerchief--”

“Keep it.” He says, feels a thrill at the smile that comes over Jack when he does.

“In that case-- wait just a moment?” 

Llewellyn nods, and waits, and winds up with Jack’s handkerchief tucked into his pocket, which seems more than worth a moment of waiting.

“There. That way you won’t be without one.” He smiles, straightening Llewellyn’s tie and jacket after.

“I’ll come by and see you when I’m able. I don’t expect to be _too_ important by this afternoon. At some point things will be back to normal, the inspector will just be in and out more than he normally is until this case is wrapped and then the usual, I imagine.”

“Well. You’ll be important to _me_.” Jack kisses him one last time and lets him go. 

Perhaps it’s foolish to say it makes him any better at handling his duties for the day, but it feels that way somehow. He has his sweetheart’s handkerchief in his pocket and his troubles are few. It’s something he can _touch_ , when he’s not sure what to do, when he needs to remember he has someone on his side, when he needs the levelheadedness and calm that Jack often brings. Acting Inspector is a whole other thing, a world of difference from making detective, and it takes a different mindset from the one he’s used to employing, it takes being able to think and behave differently from how he normally does. He’s relieved to think it’s only very short term this time-- and any decisions truly too big for him to handle, he could take to Brackenreid this time. But… he wants to handle them on his own. Even if he has no intention of going for a promotion, he wants to prove he’s capable. He wants to prove he’s deserving of the faith placed in him, even if he doesn’t know how to say he can’t be up for the position in future.

It’s the next day that he manages to get over to see Jack, on his lunch break. He slips in, watches as the few customers ahead of him are served-- watches as Jack cuts, trims, and wraps purchases, the speed and practice with which he uses a variety of knives in the course of his work, how he switches between them for different jobs and wipes the blades down. At this point he imagines it’s never going to get old-- he feels the same fascination now as he once did, when being able to watch Jack do anything was a new and tentative thrill. Someone comes in behind him, out of the corner of his eye he sees a lady’s hat, something bright green with pheasant feathers-- he shuffles to the side, prepared to wave her ahead when the line ahead thins out.

He catches Jack’s eye, as he’s slicing something thin for the last of the customers ahead-- Jack doesn’t falter in the slightest, with his work, even when his smile lights up-- one of those all-in-the-eyes smiles that breaks through the polite and professional demeanor, the kind that radiates joy.

Llewellyn waves, the gesture small, his hand tucked close against his chest. He doesn’t want to draw further attention to himself, but… well.

What else could he do, faced with that smile?

“Next?” Jack calls, though he’s looking directly at Llewellyn, like he could stare straight through his soul. Or possibly like he’s undressing him with his eyes. 

“Oh-- ah, ladies first--” Llewellyn turns, coming face to face not only with the woman who’d come in behind him, but Margaret Brackenreid.

Someday, he won’t be surprised to see her there.

“You go on ahead.” Mrs. Brackenreid nods to the woman in green. “You were in before me, I’m sure-- I remember thinking ‘oh isn’t that a smart hat’ when I came in. Well, Detective Watts. How nice to see you again!”

“Is it? I mean-- thank you? Or-- it’s… I believe I owe you my thanks, for… whatever you might have said to the inspector, between the night I spent wondering if I would still have my job in the morning and my being asked if I was interested in pursuing a career path that might lead to a promotion, the next day.”

“Oh, that has nothing to do with _me_ , I’m sure.” She pats his arm, her expression… kind, he thinks. “I don’t really recall saying anything about you, I think you can chalk that up to your own work. I explained to him how other things stood, and I think he saw reason, but whatever he might have said to you about your job, you earned.”

“Mm. Well. In that case, my apologies, for having made a scene.”

“Were you in the wrong?”

“Oh-- well… now, that’s…” He falters. She raises an eyebrow at him, and he finds himself un-hunching, slightly. “No. I wasn’t.”

“That’s what I thought.” She nods, smiling. 

“I don’t know what-- that is, about… about what happened, before, that you might have been told…”

“What happened during your case is really none of my business. I’ve got my butcher back, that’s all that really concerns me.”

“Good, yes. Right! So… you-- you don’t need to know more about… Good.”

She moves up to the counter to see to her own business, and Llewellyn leans against it a ways down, dabbing at what he’s _sure_ is a nervous sweat. Mrs. Brackenreid turns to ask him something-- some inconsequential and none-too-pressing thing which she stops short in the middle of. For a moment she just looks at him, and he’s not sure what it is he’s done wrong. She tells him not to mind, and he manages to ask her to convey his hello to John, and that’s the end of that.

“And how can I help you?” Jack asks, as they find themselves alone at last.

“Dinner?” Llewellyn suggests, carefully folding the handkerchief and placing it back in his pocket. “Out? I-- I’d like to… finish introducing you, to the friends I can introduce you to. I’m sorry it’s so few, when you’ve brought me to meet so many, but-- I thought maybe we could.”

“I would like that. Do you want lunch, while I’ve got you?”

He can hardly say no to that. He flips the sign and locks the door, pulls the shades as Jack throws together lunch for two, they plan the evening while they eat back in the office.

That evening, Llewellyn manages to catch George before he can leave for the day.

“Detective! What can I do for you?”

“Dinner. That is-- I was wondering if you would accompany me, and… if you wanted to-- properly meet a friend of mine? Who I never did get the chance to really introduce you to at the time?”

“Sir, I’d be honored.” George beams. “And here I thought you needed something for work.”

“Excellent! Well-- shall we leave work behind us?” He flings his arm out towards the door, smile and gesture broad. 

“I would like that very much. I mean, not that I would have run out on you if you had needed me on a work matter, I’m sure I would have been helpful, but I must admit I’m happier getting to meet your friend. I mean I’ve often found myself wondering what it’s like, being… friends, with a… butcher.” He finishes lamely.

“I suspect that’s _not_ what you’ve found yourself wondering, exactly.” Llewellyn smiles, and George ducks his head with a laugh. “But it’s-- it’s nice.”

There’s much they aren’t free to say, and Llewellyn has barely begun to become versed in the ways that men like him couch their meaning, though certain things he’d intuited upon without being told. But, it’s not a long walk, to the place he and Jack had arranged to meet, and Jack already has a table, and drinks waiting.

He rises when they come in, Llewellyn spotting him immediately, the two waving to each other before he takes George’s elbow and begins weaving through the crowd with George in tow.

“Llew.” Jack reaches out, as they reach the table, a handshake the best they can get in public. And yet… a handshake isn’t bad. It’s not an embrace and it’s certainly not a kiss, but it is Jack’s hand, firm and strong and fitting so well to his own, lingering. 

“Jack. You remember Constable George Crabtree? George, you remember Jack Walker.”

“Yes.” His hand reluctantly slips free of Llewellyn’s, and he offers it to George, smiling warmly. “Constable, it’s good to see you under happier circumstances.”

“Mister Walker, the same. Have you been well, lately?”

“Yes, thank you. Things have been… pleasantly crime-free for me, since the last time we met. I suppose the same can’t be said for you.”

“Well, not crime-free, no, but I don’t suppose I’d enjoy it very much if it was, all things considered. Oh, I mean of course it would be nice, if there was no crime. But I’m not sure what I’d do with myself. I’m not sure if I could make a go of it writing full-time.”

“You might.” Llewellyn says, settling as comfortably as he can. “You have a gift with words. I, on the other hand… would be out of luck. We can only hope that this post-crime society is also post-capitalist-- indeed, it would have to be. In a world where a man may go hungry without employment, there will always be crime.”

“In this post-crime society you imagine, people will still need to eat. You could still live comfortably, if you had someone to take care of you. It would just be a question of keeping your mind occupied without mysteries to solve.”

“Oh, well I could concoct them for you!” George says. “I could come up with… little ones! When I wasn’t working on a novel, I could put together-- I mean, think of it, Sir, it wouldn’t only be you. I expect loads of detectives, if they woke up in a brave new world of-- of crimelessness, they would be hard-pressed to find a use for their time! Why, there would be a whole new market for imaginary crime. Not only mystery novels and plays, but… imagine, if you went to a-- a warehouse on the docks, and someone planted you a bunch of clues and evidence to puzzle out, and at the end of the evening, you’d have solved a crime? A murder, say, or a kidnapping, or even your own kidnapping!”

“I think it’s of limited appeal to non-detectives, George, but by that token it might be of immense interest to those of us keenly missing having something to detect.”

“It would be an interesting world. I don’t suppose we could complain about being made redundant.”

“No, I don’t suppose we could.”

“Mister Walker, if I might ask a question that verges on the personal--?”

“You may, if you’ll call me Jack.”

“Jack, yes. Well, what I confess I’ve wondered-- What’s he like when he’s home? I mean, does that brain ever rest? Or is it all philosophizing?”

Llewellyn gapes a moment, a bit taken aback that the question should be about _him_ , though there are so many questions George couldn’t ask in the middle of a restaurant. Jack seems charmed by it, though.

“Well…” He rubs at his chin, makes a show of looking Llewellyn over. “It’s not easy convincing that brain to rest, no. But a good meal usually helps.”

“Oh, now that doesn’t surprise me, Sir.”

“I introduce you and you _immediately_ join forces against me, I should have known.”

“Well I think we’re joining forces out of _fondness_ of you, Sir.”

“In that case…” Llewellyn smiles down at the table. “I suppose I can’t complain about that, either.”


	22. Turn My Head With Talk of Summertime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A blissful weekend... and a not-so-blissful return to the work week.

The book club has finished Leaves of Grass-- had wrapped their discussion only the night before, in fact-- and accepted Llewellyn’s suggestion for the next book. Aldous had been over the moon about the choice, in fact, and then Llewellyn had spent the night with Jack, knowing he would have all Sunday with him, before they needed to return to their own separate spheres. 

And now, Sunday morning, he wakes beneath Jack, the weight and warmth of his body. A body he can run his hands over, and revel in the suppleness of him. The muscle of his shoulders, there to be idly kneaded at as he tries to mimic the way Jack works at his own sometimes-- he thinks it may be as much pleasure for him as for Jack, to do the kneading, to feel the way he’s built, the firmness of muscle and the smoothness of skin. 

And, there’s the matter of Jack’s lips against his throat, gentle and reverent and playful all in turn, each kiss its own sweet moment. Wandering a little, though not too far, soft and lazy in the early morning. 

And, there’s the matter of Jack’s arousal, pressing into his hip, until he shifts and brings them in line.

“Oh, _good_ morning.” Llewellyn groans, tilting his head back to let Jack’s lips roam a little more. A kiss is dragged all the way up his throat in return, stopping just under his chin, and he grins to himself and holds Jack a little tighter. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just because I’m up.”

“I noticed.”

Jack chuckles, it vibrates against his throat. There’s a scrape of teeth, too-gentle. “And because you’re beautiful.”

“You… have an _odd_ idea of beauty. I’m sure you’re the good-looking one.”

“You’re one to talk, you like my _freckles_.”

“I like your freckles. I love your freckles. I _worship_ your freckles. Bring your freckles over here, to where my lips are, let me adore your freckles.”

Jack emerges from the crook of his neck to be kissed, closes his eyes and basks as Llewellyn leans up and kisses him lightly across his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. Down over his jaw, up to his brow, he tilts him and Jack lets himself be tilted, and lets himself be kissed. Though the kisses are soft and dry and not subject to more carnal passions, he cannot call them chaste-- they linger too longingly, too sweetly. They beg a question he can’t put into words, one he doesn’t yet know.

“What do you want for breakfast?” Jack asks, lips brushing against Llewellyn’s. Llewellyn just slides a hand up into Jack’s hair, to draw him in for a longer kiss, tongue trespassing against lower lip. 

It only takes that little invitation, for Jack to smile against him, and press him down into the bed, and kiss him to distraction. To take both his hands, their fingers lacing together, and to grind against him, just this side of too slow.

He only pulls back from kissing him so that he can place softer kisses to the knuckles of each hand, to the end of his nose. So that he can look into his eyes.

“ _Oh_ …”

“What?” Jack smiles, releases one hand to stroke Llewellyn’s cheek. 

“You…” He wraps his legs around Jack. “ _You_.”

There aren’t words for it, the beauty of the moment and the beauty of the man. He can’t form the words, for what it feels like to drown in the fathomless desire-darkened sea of Jack’s eyes. For what it feels like to be breathless beneath him. 

“Oh, Llew…” Jack sighs, noses into his cheek and stays _close_ . “ _Oh_ , Llewellyn, love…”

He goes back to holding Jack, hand cupping the back of his head, thumb stroking through his hair, soft and un-pomaded. He understands why Jack keeps it slicked neatly, but he loves the feel of it, clean and ruffle-able. 

The hand leaves his, slips down between them, teasing at first, trailing down his chest, his belly, before reaching him-- reaching them both. All the slowly simmering heat is ratcheted to a boil, with Jack’s hand on them both, and he gives up the hold he has at the back of his head to help, to offer them both that little bit more, to make Jack moan, make his eyes roll back over the sweep of a thumb just so…

He’s good at this. Using his hand is the one thing he has prior experience with, and he hadn’t had much trouble with mentally turning things around, to be able to make it right for Jack facing him. To be able to find little things Jack likes. Jack likes his hands, which doesn’t hurt. He likes Jack’s hands. The two of them finding a rhythm together suits both of them.

He knows when Jack is close, because if he’s close before Llewellyn has finished, the kisses dry up again so that Jack can watch with a dizzying intensity, and so that he can whisper breathy encouragements, praises. He urges Llewellyn towards that apex of pleasure with every barely-voiced word, until with a soft grunt or a heavy sigh, he’s spilling over as well…

Llewellyn can’t think of a better way to start a morning. And the aftermath, catching his breath as Jack lays beside him, fingers trailing through the mess they’ve left streaking his belly… watching himself smear it around, lost in thought.

“Something on your mind, sweetheart?”

“Hm? Oh… just… wondering. Wondering how long I could keep you, with neither of us really needing to be somewhere. And wondering how much we could get up to.”

“That didn’t satisfy you?”

“You satisfy me. Always.” He nips at Llewellyn’s lower lip, kisses him warmly. Wipes his hand clean against his own side. “Spend all day satisfying me. _Indulge_ me… and let me indulge you. Let me take care of you. Let us be, for as much of the day as possible, one.”

_One_. It sends a shiver through him. To spend all day with that feeling, of sinking into each other, of knowing Jack’s heartbeat like his own… constantly in anticipation of making love, if not in the process of doing so, constantly connected to each other… To be caught in that cycle of wanting-- no, needing-- to do for each other! The ecstasy of being Jack’s priority, the rightness of Jack being his. He hadn’t realized love could be so pleasantly consuming. 

He hadn’t realized this depth of feeling was possible. He hadn’t realized any of this was possible. Jack looks at him sometimes and something in him turns to jelly, and he never knew that love could be the way that it is. 

“Is this what everyone feels?” He asks, stroking Jack’s cheek. “Is it… heightened, because we’re men? Because it’s secret, because we steal our moments? How do people get anything done, if this truly is how they feel with each other all the time?”

“I don’t know if _anyone_ feels like this.” Jack smiles, sighing deeply. His fingertips play over the back of Llewellyn’s hand. “I’ve never felt this way, with anyone else. I… I’ve been in love, and then out of it, struggled with it, but not… not _this_ love. Your love.”

“Really?”

“Really. You’re… different. Special. What we have… isn’t what I’m used to. And I don’t think that’s because things I’ve had before haven’t been real. I mean… some of my experiences have been bad ones, or unwise, but it’s not fair to say they all were. It’s not fair to say my feelings weren’t real when I had them, even if things always seemed to end poorly. But it’s different with you. It’s different, when we want the same things. You make me feel so much better. And it’s not… it’s not that you make me complete, that I wasn’t before. We both were. We just… had to try to hide parts of ourselves. Not to do with being homosexual, even, but the parts of ourselves that have been rejected. We were already whole people, but we hampered ourselves. We didn’t need to be made whole, we needed to be seen.”

“Mm. Makes sense. We are all on a quest to be known and valued by our fellow man. For some of us, those who value us do not know us, and those who know us do not value us. Or we fear that they can’t, or we know that they won’t… not if they know us too deeply. With you, I… I gave you every opportunity to reject me, before I could become too attached to you. You have not done that. You… have not done that.”

“No. I have not.”

“All I’ve ever known about love is how to lose it. And I haven’t lost you.”

“You won’t.” Jack kisses his hand. “You… The thing is… you’re not the first man who’s ever wanted to protect me, or tried to, or managed to in some small way. But you’re the first man to want to protect me… and to-- I don’t quite know how to put it. Submit himself to me? That sounds… either more or less than it is, somehow. Or… sexual, when that’s not all I mean.”

“To not expect you to be a housewife?”

“More than that. But like that. I feel like there’s something I keep trying to say, and I never know how, that I want you to know I appreciate. Just that… you want to take care of me, too. But you… I don’t know. But you do it your way, and you let me do it my way, and you trust me… You’re my white knight, Llew, but that doesn’t dictate what _I_ have to be. I’m not used to that. Not… not that every man I’ve been with has _tried_ to make me what I’m not, or not on purpose. I think… it’s just being sensitive to it. Thinking I had to be certain things, to be wanted. Always failing to make that work.”

Llewellyn hums thoughtfully. “I know… I know that. Only I think I’ve never been so successful at it. I… can only be myself. I’m… aware, that it’s not what people want me to be. But it has always been beyond me, to change myself much. The act of doing so is exhausting. There is a mask I have to wear to exist in the world as it is, but to tailor myself further? I can’t. It’s so much just to look… to be halfway acceptable. And my shoulders are always tight, and my jaw, and I go home exhausted from being around people, but I want to be around people. It’s just… people don’t want me. The real one. And it’s all I can do to be this much...”

“It’s what I want you to be.” Jack squeezes his wrist. “Just yourself. Hang the rest, it’s what your _friends_ want you to be. Your real friends.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing.” Jack says, and his voice is so soft, so certain. All Llewellyn can do is roll over onto him and kiss him, grateful. Not grateful to Jack for saying so, or not only, so much as grateful to the universe for providing him, that he might from time to time say these things.

Jack laughs softly and kisses him back, and plays with his hair, just a little. 

“Beloved, you’re absolutely _filthy_.”

“Oh-- I didn’t think it was that kind of kiss…”

“I mean, you’re sticky, and you’re sweaty, and I’m not far behind you. And I should be getting you into a shower. And I think I just got a little, um, in your hair, I thought I wiped it off my hand but it’s… uh…”

He rolls his eyes upwards, but there’s no way to check without a mirror anyway. Jack gives his hip a gentle tap, kissing his cheek, and he leaves the bed, offering him a hand up. 

“Glad for that private bath.” He sighs. “How did you _get_ this?”

“I thought it was worth it-- it’s not a full bath but I wanted a place where I could be guaranteed a shower every night as I got home. Otherwise I’d either have to join an athletic club or fall asleep smelling like blood and hair pomade at least once in a while… which is less than pleasant, I can tell you. Most of the rooms don’t have them, I managed to get the _one_ room which used to belong to Kerr’s father, he’d installed it for the old man’s health.”

“And feeding his cat was part of the bargain to get a better room?”

“No, I just like cats.”

“Really?” Llewellyn smiles, heading for the door to said bath.

“Why not? They perform the necessary work of keeping pests from stealing and spoiling our food. They’re cute. They’re good company. People think they’re cold, but they’re just not _dogs_ , they have their own way of being sociable. They’re sweet, if you understand them. I got the room because the timing worked out. And most people didn’t _want_ the shower. Too much of a luxury, built for an invalid, makes the space too cramped… so it didn’t run me as much as you’d think.”

He sees himself in the mirror then, and there’s definitely flakes of something white in his hair, which given the fact he hasn’t previously been plagued by dry skin, he suspects is indeed the result of their mingled release drying on Jack’s hand. Given he’s about to step into a shower, he doesn’t suppose he minds it.

They barely fit, together. They have to squeeze into the cage of pipes one at a time and then rearrange themselves and the nozzles to be able to share the shower, and it’s easier to wash each other than it is to wash themselves, jammed in up against each other as they are… but it’s more pleasant to wash each other, too.

After they’re clean, Llewellyn makes coffee while Jack sees to breakfast. They feed each other, sitting too-close at the table-- though when it comes to Llewellyn feeding Jack, it’s more so he can actually eat his food while it’s hot, given his preoccupation with doing the feeding. But they could fall back into bed after this, they could do nothing all day but eat and make love and periodically clean up.

He’s never found sloth an attractive vice, but the idea of a day spent barely leaving Jack’s bed… well, he plans on getting in enough activity that he doesn’t think ‘sloth’ is the word. Not with the way Jack watches him, the way one hand strokes along his jaw and his throat, the way they’re both leaning so far towards each other… no, it’s hard to imagine the day will be _slothful_.

He can’t imagine Jack’s former lovers wouldn’t have done this for him if he had worked himself up to ask for it before Llewellyn. It’s sensual-- less so the fork-fed omelette, though he’d thoroughly enjoyed it just as food, but the bites torn from a muffin, and the sausage, and Jack’s fingers against his lips or slipping past them, that had been nearly electric. And just to be looked at the way Jack looks at him alone, even if he didn’t love every bite on its own merits, not just for the sensuality of the feeding, but for the warmth that floods him at being taken care of… who wouldn’t allow this? Who wouldn’t thrill to it?

If he thought about it, it might scare him still, being taken care of. But there’s no _thinking_ when Jack feeds him. That part of his brain that might push back against allowing himself to be cared for, to need someone, that part of him that gets fearful and defensive and self-defeating, it’s _gone_ when Jack looks at him that way, brings food to his lips, touches him and takes care of him, with something so primal, so important. If it wasn’t food, maybe it wouldn’t cut through his defenses, but… it isn’t only the food, it’s Jack, too.

It’s Jack the way he looks at him, the way he’s looking at him now, the last bites swallowed but his hand still curved around the side of Llwellyn’s throat, where it had rested gently, warm.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, though he’s begun to guess at the meanings behind those looks with some reliability, in the time they’ve been… carnal, together. 

“It’s… not important.” Jack’s gaze flickers downward. “We could do anything you like and I’d be happy, I-- I had this. And even if we didn’t, I had this. And earlier.”

“But what are you _thinking_?”

“It’s really-- it’s too much. I’d rather not say.” 

“Well… is there a runner-up?” He slides his hand up Jack’s thigh under the table, and finds him _hard_. Not just beginning to be, but straining against his trousers, so hard he feels a sympathetic throb. His own arousal had waxed and waned over the course of breakfast, but never passed what he’d consider the halfway mark, but Jack must be _aching_.

“O-oh… maybe.” Jack licks his lips. “I-- yes. Come with me?”

Llewellyn nods, lets Jack lead him over to the sitting area. When Jack tosses a cushion down onto the floor, he doesn’t need any additional prompting to move to kneel there. The sigh from Jack is _gratifying_ , the way he looks at him as if he’s given him the world before he’s even done anything. He thinks he’d do anything for that sigh, that look, the feeling of having _fulfilled_ him somehow, done for him any small part of what Jack does so readily.

“Open your mouth.” Jack says, his voice soft, one hand comfortingly firm as it strokes through Llewellyn’s hair. And his other hand, working his trousers open, letting them fall. He pulls his cock out, brings it to Llewellyn’s lips while holding him still, allowing him just the feeling of the head resting on his lower lip. 

He can-- and does-- lick enthusiastically at what he can reach, with Jack’s hand in his hair and only so much given to him so far. Leans forward against being held back, tongue hitting Jack’s fingers, where his hand is wrapped around his cock to feed it to him. 

“Jack, _please_ … let me, for you?”

His hips stutter forward at that, his cock slides against Llewellyn’s cheek before he manages to guide himself back to his mouth. Groans as he sinks in, and it’s easier every time, but especially now. He feels relaxed after the morning, he feels in tune. He feels ready for as much as Jack will give.

This time, Jack doesn’t ask to come over his tongue, to see the evidence of it there. He just finishes, with a little warning, and Llewellyn swallows-- swallows, and feels Jack’s hand gentle against his throat again to feel him do so. Jack’s look of complete awe, for him.

“Oh, lamb…” He says, and again with an air as if he’s been given so much more than this. As if it wasn’t something Llewellyn loved doing-- loves it enough that he’s gone from mildly interested in lovemaking to achingly hard himself, just from this.

Jack eases him down, to lie on his back on the rug with the cushion beneath his head rather than his knees, runs his hands all over him before settling in to return the favor, eagerly applying all his skill to taking Llewellyn apart. 

It’s bliss, it’s rapture. He feels that pleasant kind of helplessness come over him, the sort of feeling of being able to put his trust in Jack to make it all right. Being able to let go of himself because it’s Jack-- because Jack won’t leave him, because it’s safe to trust him.

And it’s bliss after, to cuddle into the same chair with a book, to take turns reading to each other. It’s bliss to have nowhere to be, to remain half-dressed and to feel Jack’s bare skin, just because he can. To cuddle into each other and share John Muir, a suitable private follow-up to the spirit of Whitman. 

“I’d like to go there someday.” Llewellyn sighs, as he passes the book back off to Jack. “Reading this, I feel as if I know those places. I could close my eyes and see them.”

“The sierras are pretty far afield.” Jack says, one hand in his hair. 

“Yes, but so different to Toronto.” He turns and kisses Jack’s temple. “Is it too far to go adventuring, for you?”

“I don’t think I could leave the shop that long. My silent partner is just that-- it’s mostly _me_. Maybe… maybe someday. I don’t have a real apprentice who could work in my absence. The shop could stay open if I worked hard to have stock waiting, but then…”

“Then I suppose Paris is out of the question?”

“For now. But… I know a little place, with cabins to rent. And it’s not the sierras, but there’s a meadow, and it’s golden in the summertime… and there’s a beach, where hardly any people are. If you could forgo the mountains, we could enjoy a little getaway. A long weekend, maybe a few days-- time I would be able to leave the shop, if you could leave your work.”

“Mm… it’ll be a while. I’d just come back from traveling, not too long before I met you. And they do like me to be around, if they want to justify signing my paychecks.”

“How inconvenient.”

“Is that where the pictures were taken? This beach? You said once it was an island?”

“Yes. We… we’d all scheduled it. We’d taken up as many cabins as we could, so-- so that it would only be us-- so that we could breathe. And… maybe it wasn’t perfect, but it was really something, Llew. It was really something, to be free there. I don’t think it could be that way again… I don’t think it ever could have happened without Owen. I couldn’t organize a thing like that, I don’t know if any of us could. That crowd-- I don’t know. I’m not in touch with most of them. They were his friends, not mine, but… it was nice to live in that world for a while.”

“We could try. Even if it’s just the book club.” He smiles. “But even if it’s just us, even if we still have to be careful, hide… I want you to take me there.”

“All right. We’ll save Paris for… oh, twenty five years together. When I’ll have someone else doing all my heavy lifting in the shop and we can take a fortnight abroad.” Jack cups his cheek. “And when we’re old men looking to rekindle the spark.”

“Speaking of rekindling the spark… how do you feel about lunch? And is there anything I can do to help?”

“I was thinking just a hot sandwich-- not much work to it. You could read to me while I work?”

Llewellyn is happy to settle in at the table to do just that. It adds to the feeling of this day of indulgence, to do so. Lunch, and Jack’s halting confession of how after breakfast, he had longed to bend him over the table and have him, how he’d imagined feeding him even still, just to keep any sound muffled by keeping his mouth filled, how it’s not a realistic want, only a wild thought. 

They don’t attempt anything like it, lunch hadn’t left Jack in the same state as breakfast. It’s enough to talk about it, and to spend much of the afternoon quietly canoodling, until after supper when Jack does prepare him, at Llewellyn’s insistence.

They don’t do it on the table. In bed, though, with his legs wrapped around Jack’s waist, with his hands held and pinned to the mattress. With Jack whispering in his ear the entire time, telling him he’s loved, safe, _held_. Every sweet thing he’s ever called him comes readily from his lips, every promise Llewellyn could have ever dreamt of hearing. He _belongs_ here, _home_ , and his body hums with pleasure electric. 

He would do anything, anything. To make Jack happy, to please him, to make him safe? He longs to, be it white knight or devoted servant, or anything else. The idea that all he needs to do is _this_ and Jack is happy, he can hardly contain the joy of. 

He would pass out afterwards, content, if Jack did not urge him into the bath. He adjusts one of the lower nozzles on the cage shower, while Jack changes the bedsheets, and waits for the water to heat.

At least, he’d thought he’d waited on the water to heat. It had felt hot when he’d stuck his hand in.

Jack comes running in when he exclaims, and finds him clinging to the pipes to stay upright.

“What _happened_ to you? I left you alone a _minute_.”

“I took into account how hot the water was against my hand, I did not take into account how it would compare to my internal body temperature.” He shudders.

“Oh, _lamb_.” Jack grabs a towel for him. “I’ve been there.”

“Is that something that happens to everyone, then?”

“Well… everyone who’s engaged in this particular act, then had access to this style of shower bath has probably suffered a rude shock at least once.”

“That’s a balm to my dignity.” He turns the water off. He feels clean enough.

Jack only needs to clean up at the sink, he uses a corner of Llewellyn’s towel, before dropping it into the hamper. He rubs his shoulders until Llewellyn feels better still, fusses over combing his hair and dressing him, and then he curls in against him in bed, oddly small in his arms. 

It’s nice, he thinks. It’s nice, to have Jack fuss over and care for him, and it’s nice to have Jack want to sleep on his chest, listen to his heart, feel safer to be held by him. It’s nice knowing that Jack wants him for comfort.

The morning can’t be so leisurely. He has work, after all. But he wakes early enough so that Jack can send him off properly with all the petting and fussing he’s come to enjoy, with a hot breakfast that isn’t too heavy for a work morning and a hundred little attentions as they get ready for the day around each other.

“Lamb…” Jack cups his cheek and holds him at the door a moment. “Thank you, for yesterday. You were… _wonderful_. Every moment with you. I-- The things you do to me.”

Llewellyn leans in, rubs his face into Jack’s palm and kisses the heel of his hand. “And you. I feel ready to face the trials ahead. Spring in my step. Song in my heart.”

“Go on, then.” He kisses Llewellyn’s nose one last time, before pulling back. “Go on and… catch a murderer.”

“Oh, no. No. No one’s allowed to be murdered today, I’m in altogether too good a mood. The things _you_ do to _me_.”

He makes it out without being caught. The start to the morning is fine. 

It can’t last, he supposes. He’d hoped, yes, but he hadn’t trusted. He’d hoped a little too hard, when he and George had been called out to Detective Murdoch’s neighborhood. So perhaps it’s only fair something in life should have to give.


	23. I'm Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MMMMM

He doesn’t get the chance to visit Jack during the course of the investigation. It would be too risky, after the weekend they’d had, and his focus had had to remain on his role, and those two things together… Too much scrutiny, with a case like that one had been, to slip away to see his lover. No way of knowing if someone was watching him. The risk of countersurveillance had been high enough before they’d actively courted it in order to plant information, and the idea of Fellows or some greasy private detective put onto him… 

They’re careful, but careful only goes so far. A man with a very good camera and a place of concealment could catch enough to paint a picture. Not if it had been any two men, no-- nothing about any two men walking with their heads bent together to talk, or the occasional taking of an arm, would be suspicious. Nothing about a man standing close by while a friend locked up shop, or turning a sign to closed for him. The windows at Jack’s place are always covered when they’re in. If they touch each other even a little, in the unshuttered shop after hours, the lights are already too dim for a decent photograph to be taken, and you’d need a hell of a lucky angle to shoot them and not a side of beef or a shelving display, a hanging duck or a rope of sausages. The problem is they _aren’t_ just any men. Inspector Brackenreid and Detective Murdoch know who Jack is-- what Jack is-- and they also both know that Llewellyn let him out of his cell. Not that he took him along to uncover the evidence and brought him back, not even that he escorted him on his errand, that he let him _go_. And they’ve chalked it up as a moment of stunning naivete and luck, but the main fact of the matter is, they know that Llewellyn only knows Jack because of his involvement in the case, because he is homosexual. Perhaps they could excuse his being seen in conversation with Glen, given the other similarities in their background, their views. But Jack? With whom he had been overly solicitous? With whom he is presumed to share nothing?

The thought that they would not protect him is one he’s grown used to. Worse is the thought that they might-- by shifting all blame onto Jack, throwing him to the wolves and imagining that without his influence Llewellyn could live normally. He would rather lose everything and keep Jack’s name clear of it than be protected like that. But this case comes with scrutiny, and scrutiny from outside, and who knows what might happen when it’s stationhouse four against the world?

The very _idea_ of someone following him, seeing too much, coming back after him with a camera, the idea of some man using Jack to hurt him, and hurting Jack in the process… He would not be able to perform his duties with a clear head and objective thought, if he were putting Jack in the line of fire. For the course of the investigation, the most he can do is slip a note beneath the door of the shop-- _busy, important case, staying safe_ \-- and hope that Jack will miss him a little but not worry for him much.

But, after. After, with Jack’s copy of A Man Alone to take to him…

That, and a bottle of wine, and a modest bouquet, and it’s been just over two months, just over two months of _bliss_ , of knowing each other, of falling into this beautiful thing, and maybe that’s a silly thing to want to celebrate, but he wants to celebrate it.

Just over two months, not yet nine weeks, and he still feels something giddy every time he stands at Jack’s door. Almost uncertain in spite of all his certainty. He could almost call it anxious, except there’s no fear. Well, the reasonable fear that he could be seen, that they could be caught, that Jack could be hurt or punished. But it’s the pleasanter thing that his nerves do, when he stands in the hallway and knocks on the door and waits for it to swing open, and waits for Jack’s smile.

He never waits long.

“Llewellyn.” He smiles, not so tight as his smile was just two months ago. And it isn’t only the smile or the light in his eyes, it’s the way he stands taller, the way his posture opens. The way he seems… more at peace, than he used to be, and moreso on seeing him. “Come in. How does a light supper sound? I was just going to throw together a salad and put on a little steak-- won’t be too much split between two, but I think it’ll be enough.”

“Light’s probably for the best. I’ve been eating on the go all day. Just a _little_ steak sounds right.” He slides into the room and closes the door, smiling as Jack takes his hat and kisses his cheek. “I’d probably leave most of it to you, anyway.”

“Been busy? Your note said...”

“Well… if you remember my saying no one was allowed to be murdered, it turns out… no one is ever allowed to be murdered, but they do it anyway, so… busy, yes.”

Jack laughs-- amusement… relief?-- and kisses his cheek again for good measure, before taking the flowers from him. “Are these for me?”

“They are. I-- it’s been… it’s been a couple of months, hasn’t it?”

Jack bites his lip, brushing his fingertips over the blossoms. “It depends on when you start counting. Is that important?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never-- done this. I don’t know what a long time is. I don’t… I never thought someone would _stay_.”

“Well… a couple of months of just the two of us… that’s longer than anything I’ve-- I mean, I’ve… slept with the same man for longer than that, but-- that’s not the same as being courted and… being someone’s only. So. I think whatever we want to call it, having known each other a little more than two months and being happy as we are, it’s worth a little celebrating.”

“And I brought you a cabernet.” He holds the bottle up before getting it opened and leaving it on the table. The book is safe inside his coat pocket-- after Jack gets the flowers in the vase, he comes to help him out of his coat, to hang it up. 

“I’m sure I’ll like it. You’ll have to tell me what the notes are. I don’t have your palate.”

“You cook well enough. There can’t be anything wrong with your palate.”

“Cooking is different. I haven’t been tasting wine since I was a child.”

“Well… I never mind going over what I get out of it. I can save that for when the steak is ready.”

“I thought I’d serve it over the salad-- the steak, not the wine.” Jack winds his arms around Llewellyn’s neck, leaning in.

“Sounds good. Although if you wanted to pour wine over a salad, I would reserve my judgment until I’d tried it. Like a very young vinaigrette.” He leans in to meet him, to capture a proper kiss. And, from there, to exchange a few others. 

“ _Very_ young. Mm, and then maybe-- oh, _Detective_ , please, I’ll never get us fed at this rate…”

“Me?” Llewellyn entirely fails to look innocent, and also entirely fails to remove his hands from Jack’s backside, where both are firmly and happily placed.

“You.” Jack reaches up to wind one loose curl around a finger. “Anyone would think you’d been away from me _weeks_.”

“Time, I’m told, is relative. Time spent away from you is longer than time spent with you.”

“Oh, is that a fact?”

“The very cutting edge of physics, this is brand new science.”

“I see.” He laughs, and peppers Llewellyn’s face with several more kisses before pulling back. “The meat won’t take ten minutes once I get it in the pan. Why don’t you get off your feet and tell me about work? Nothing much to say about mine except that it was normal, you sound like you have a story.”

He does as he’s told-- well, suggested to, more than _told_ \-- settling into his usual chair at the table and watching Jack get a pan on the stove, check the meat, move everything he wants into place. Always turned a little ways towards him even when working on dinner would have his back to him.

“I _should_ invite George to tell it to you one of these days, he orchestrated more of the moving parts of the thing than I did. Well-- to begin at the beginning, Detective Murdoch was framed for murder again.”

“Again? Is this a regular occurrence?”

He thinks for a minute, puffs his mouth up with air before forcing out a hard sigh. “Twice in four years, but only that, as far as I am aware.”

“Your colleague leads quite the life.”

“Oh, a charmed existence to be sure… but one in which he’s made a great many enemies.”

“Llewellyn… _were_ you safe?”

“Yes.” He rises, takes the two and a half steps to be able to rest his hands on Jack’s waist, to be able to stand close behind him as he cooks. “I was safe. I… had to be away from you, to keep us both safe, until this one was over. Added scrutiny. If anyone was watching me when I slid the note under your door, they’d have seen me tying my shoe.”

“You had to consider even that?”

“One of ours under suspicion meant oversight. The involvement of a private detective-- who was formerly a police detective, and also our murderer, and who could have called others to his disposal if he needed to be in more than one place at once-- not to mention the press getting… involved. Involved. Too many eyes that might have swung their focus to me, to put you at risk. Both of us at risk. I… I was _safe_ , Jack, going to those lengths is just… I mean, you _know_. You know the cost of safe.”

“I don’t just mean safe about us. I mean… were you threatened? Shot at?” He tries to keep his voice even, but it rises and falters. There’s a tremor in the hand holding his kitchen tongs, they rattle nervous in his grip.

“Nothing like that.” He kisses the back of one ear, nuzzles the back of his head. He slides one hand up to spread over Jack’s heart. “I swear, nothing like that. More like running me around trying to use me as a cudgel against a colleague, trying to outsmart us. I was never in danger.”

“Does this happen to you? Do you make enemies like that?”

“The only person to ever try to frame me for murder has been _me_. I… will make enemies. I have made enemies. Some of them are dead, not all of them. Some of them wanted me dead. Not all of them. I… I can’t promise that I won’t ever find myself in the position of needing my colleagues to clear my name, while I sit in a cell accused of a crime I did not commit-- I can’t even promise that there won’t be a day they have to grapple with clearing me of a crime I did. Though… I sincerely hope not. And if that ever happens, they will do as much for me as I’ve done… And if that ever happens, George will know where to find you, and what you mean to me. You won’t be sitting around wondering what’s happened to me if I’m ever in trouble. If I disappear, and you don’t hear much from me for a few days while I’m working a case, and George _doesn’t_ find you and give you the bad news, it means there’s no bad news to give. I’m just protecting us by waiting for the heat to be off before I come home.”

Jack sighs and places his free hand over Jack’s, there over his heart. Holds him there.

“Home.” He murmurs. “You’re home.”

“I’m home.” He kisses his neck. “Can I make the salad?”

“Too early, I want everything done together… but-- yes. If you’d like to, we can… we can fix dinner together tonight.”

“I’d like to. I wanted to _keep_ you from worrying, instead I’ve made you worry more. I want to… take care of you. Whenever I’ve been anxious, upset, tired, you’ve always fed me. Let me help feed you.”

“Feeding you makes me feel better, too, you know. But… I would like that.” He gets the steak turned over, before leaning back more firmly against Llewellyn’s chest. “I’m just glad you’re here, Llew. I did worry. I know you said you were safe, but…”

“I’m here now.” He nods. “I… wish there was a more reassuring way of getting that message to you succinctly, I suppose ‘important case, staying safe’ implies there’s something I need to work hard to stay safe from.”

“I’d have worried no matter what, I think. Just a little. Anyway, tell me how your case went.”

He does, sticking to the highlights and sticking close, keeping himself pressed up against Jack as he takes the meat off the heat to rest, as he does a little tidying. He separates from him so that he can remove his jacket and wash up to help with the salad, tearing the lettuce and crumbling the cheese while Jack chops up vegetables. This, too, he thinks, will be better in summer. They’ll have more things they can add, and better. But he intends to enjoy it just the same tonight-- he doesn’t intend to put his entire life on hold waiting just because there are certain promises which wait on the changing of seasons to be fulfilled. 

“Well, it sounds like you were magnificent.” Jack squeezes his forearm fondly, as the story is wrapped-- and the preparing of the meal.

While Llewellyn had taken care of tossing the salad together and plating it, Jack had sliced the steak thin, laid those strips over the beds of salad. It makes for an attractive plate, not that Llewellyn had plated for looks when he’d served the salad out. He gets the wine poured-- it’s a well-practiced motion by now to pour for the two of them, filling his own glass first in case of any bits of cork floating at the top of the bottle, but re-setting it before himself after getting Jack’s glass filled and set in place. The routine of tasting together first, though he doesn’t always talk through a full explanation of the wine.

Tonight, though.

“So tell me. What am I tasting?” Jack smiles, looking more relaxed again. 

“Plum, raspberry… red pepper. And there’s-- ah! Yes, there’s a distinct note of gravel.”

“I _want_ my wine to taste like gravel?”

“Well, you want your wine to taste like wine. But sometimes there’s a _note_ of gravel.”

“I think I taste the plum and… maybe the pepper. I don’t taste any gravel, Llew.”

“You’re getting the pepper?” He beams, leaning forward. “Do you like it?”

“I think so. Maybe with the food.”

“The acidity is just the high side of medium, which means it should be enjoyable with the vinaigrette on the salad, and then it’s going to work with any fat in the meat.”

“You know, before you, all I knew was that you’d pair red wine with red meat. And now I… know slightly more than that.” Jack laughs, getting his first bite assembled, a little of everything. Chewing and swallowing carefully before giving the wine another try. “Mm-- oh… yes. Yes, that goes with the salad as well. I-- my favorite was the bordeaux, still, but I like this one.”

He makes careful mental note of that, as he gets his own first bite-- between the distraction of wanting to see Jack’s thoughts on the pairing, and the slight bit of trouble he’d had in cutting his first bite, the steak sliding against the salad and his hands never entirely un-clumsy with his cutlery, he’d taken longer, but he makes up for lost time with enthusiasm, at least. Comes out of the dreamy haze of that first taste to see Jack _staring_ , cheeks pink.

“This is _amazing_.” He says, although it’s possible his groan required no clarification. “I’ve _never_ had a steak this good. I take back what I said about leaving most of it to you, I was laboring under the misapprehension that I did not actually like steak very much.”

“Yes?” Jack breaks out into a _grin_. “Would you like to know why?”

“Please.” He nods.

“That’s the cut that-- it’s down _here_.” He gestures to his torso. “Well… not a perfect comparison, but I don’t exactly keep charts on hand at home. But, behind the brisket? Sort of hanging down under the ribcage. Basically, these muscles don’t _do_ much of anything when the animal is moving around or standing. They’re just… there. They move with everything else, but they aren’t getting a workout, so this whole cut stays tender. You trim away the central membrane that holds it together and you take off the outside of the muscle where it comes up and connects and does a little more work, you make a separate cut out of that, and you’re left with, honestly, the best piece of meat you can get off of a cow. Better flavor than the tenderloin, barely any less tender. And, I think, easier to cook. I might be _largely_ alone in that, more people know how to cook a tenderloin. But that’s because more people _buy_ tenderloin.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because I actually _sell_ the tenderloin. There is exactly one of these per cow. There are a lot of good cuts. On a busy week, I might have more of some of them than usual. If I have a customer I like, or one who needs ruffled feathers soothed, there are things I can recommend that I might normally reserve for myself, or reserve some of. But this? Is mine.”

“... It all comes together now. This is the real secret.”

“I know, stick with me and all this could be yours. And it’s big enough to serve two. I didn’t have much of an appetite this evening… thought I might wind up saving most of it for sandwiches. But between the two of us, I mean-- this seems just right to me.”

“It’s perfect. And-- I am. Sticking with you. I mean…”

If they were hungrier, it would only be a matter of serving the steak with potatoes, a heartier vegetable, it seems enough meat to satisfy. But tonight, he thinks he agrees that it couldn’t be better, and more than what they have wouldn’t make him any happier. He’s stopped for small meals, he’d come home for comforts beyond the dinner table. And… to be able to give Jack comforts, too.

Jack smiles at him, soft and momentarily shy, and the conversation takes a natural lull to allow them to focus on the food, for a while. But it’s a comfortable quiet, with the odd warm look, the odd touch beneath the table.

“I brought you something else…” Llewellyn says, when they’ve come to the end of the meal.

“Llew…” Jack’s face lights up, pleased and surprised and just slightly flushed. “You already brought wine and flowers.”

“I said I’d get you a copy, for book club, and it’s just taken me longer than I meant it to.” He gets up-- a little too hastily, he has to catch his chair before he can knock it over, which… is embarrassing, but the smile Jack watches him with is all pleasure and fondness, no amusement, no teasing. He gets the book from his coat, holding it out for Jack to take, their hands brushing.

“Oh-- so you did. Thank you.”

“I, um…” He gestures, at a loss for words. It’s down to luck and not to his abilities at communication, that Jack opens it to see the inscription.

“To Jack, I hope you’ll enjoy it. Regards, George.” He reads, running a finger over the page. “You got it signed to me? Oh… I really hope I will like it, I’d hate to not have something nice to say about it.”

“I think you will. George really is good with words. With… understanding what makes people tick. And with concocting elaborate plots-- although I take it this one is more of a bildungsroman. Still, based on the case I was telling you about, he _should_ be crafting mysteries. Novels, at least, maybe not… scattering clues in warehouses so that people can be avocationally kidnapped in order to solve imaginary crimes. Although, again, based on how things went, he could do that very well if it was… a thing that existed.”

“I don’t know, it might be fun if it were. I wouldn’t mind solving a mystery with you, without an actual crime to worry about. Avocationally.”

“You’ve already been instrumental in two.”

“So it might be fun.” He gets to his feet, slipping an arm around Llewellyn’s waist. “Although I don’t think we’ll ever top the first time.”

“No? Well, I… suppose you never forget your first time. Being… instrumental in an investigation.”

“I’ll never forget you. Or the look on your face. Any of the looks on your face. Anything about you. Before that-- before we were really _there_ , in that moment, I was so caught up in worrying over how much I could trust you, and suddenly it hit me, how much you really needed to trust me. Well, and… how cute you were. Looking at those pictures.”

“I’d never… seen. Things. Of that nature.” He admits. “I mean I knew they existed. I knew they were sometimes seized, in raids. But I never… I never looked.”

“I guessed as much. Never tempted to liberate anything seized in a raid?”

“Too risky. I could say I was taking them to be destroyed after they were processed, but it would be suspicious. Not my job, and I would hardly be carrying out a crate full.”

“I kind of wish we could… go somewhere and solve a mystery someone built for us.” Jack rests his head against Llewellyn’s shoulder. “Maybe it would be less fun for you. But I’d get to watch you work. Try to keep up. No real stakes. A little mild thrill.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if George ever gets his hands on a warehouse somehow.”

“Beloved?”

“Mm?”

“I have something for you, too.”

“Oh?”

Jack pulls away, moving through to the corner of his space that serves as bedroom. He sets his book down on his nightstand and retrieves something from the drawer, something held in the palm of his hand. When he meets Llewellyn in the middle of the room, he presses that something into his hand, folds Llewellyn’s hand closed around it.

A key.

“Jack… is this--?”

“So you can let yourself in.”

“For-- for emergencies?” He asks, his heart pounding now, feeling suddenly dizzy. A _key_. No-- two keys. If he shifts them in his hold they clink softly together.

“Well-- yes, if… if we have one. Or if you got here too early and I was showering. You wouldn’t have to stand in the hallway worrying about the neighbors. It doesn’t have to be-- Llew? Llewellyn… is that all right?”

He nods, though it feels wrong. His head is floating and he doesn’t know how to move normally.

“It’s… soon, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know…”

“Well…” Jack touches his hand again, and when he dares a look up at him, his expression is… gentle. Resigned. “Tonight, how about you hold onto those, or-- or take them home with you, if… if that’s best, tonight? And… for now, we can say it’s for emergencies. So you won’t ever be caught out in the hall if you come too early, and so that you can get into the building if you come too late. Just… in an emergency.”

“In an emergency.” He tries nodding again. It still feels strange. 

“If you’d rather knock first it’s fine. But I want you to have those. Just in case.”

“ _Thank you_. I-- a key is… new, and-- a lot. But I-- Thank you, Jack. Really.”

“You need to think about this?” Jack smiles, and it’s a little sad, but it’s… it’s not too hurt, he doesn’t think.

“I need to think about what this means. I don’t need to think about accepting them. But… I need to think about using them.”

He nods, reaching up to cup Llewellyn’s face, to guide him in for a light kiss. “I understand. Take your time thinking about using them, but… I’m glad you’re taking them. The red is the outside door, the blue is my door.”

Llewellyn opens his hand and looks at them, for the first time. Two otherwise unremarkable brass keys, like any other… The bows of them are wrapped with colored thread, red and blue.

“I don’t… I don’t have to go, tonight. I might, early, in the morning. But I could stay, if you--”

“Please.”

He carefully transfers both keys to his waistcoat pocket, before hanging his waistcoat up. The night is subdued-- he needs to come down from the shock of being given the keys, the way it had made his anxieties spike. He’d thought he was past this… would he never be? But… there’s a fire, and he can sit on the rug in front of it, while Jack massages his scalp, and then travels down to knead at the back of his neck, at his shoulders.

After Jack has finished working the fresh tension from his shoulders, he leans into his lap, the way he does when there aren’t enough seats in the parlor during book club nights. He could move to a chair, but he likes being closer to the fire, and he likes having Jack return to playing with his hair when the massage is done. He does so one-handed, while reading, and allows Llewellyn his quiet for a long while.

“Lamb…” He breaks the silence at last. “Feeling all right?”

“I don’t know.”

“But… all right, here?”

“Yes.” He says. He doesn’t want to be anywhere else. Even with the impulse to run, he doesn’t want to be anywhere else. He doesn’t want to be far from Jack. The panic… it’s just something to deal with, to rationalize.

“Good. I… I want you to feel safe here.”

“I do. If I can feel safe anywhere, it’s here. I… Loss… _damaged_ me. More than I was willing to acknowledge. And… now that you’re offering me so much… it pokes the bruise. No, bad metaphor. You are being kind. Sweet. The opposite of the experiences which left me damaged. But… I think… because you offer me something that has always been yanked from my grasp, it… Logical thought fails me.”

“It’s all right. You really can take all the time you need to think about this. As long as you _have_ the keys, I’m happy. You _can_ use them-- you’re not obligated to. I like answering the door to you. But I want you to be able to get in when you need to, even if I can’t let you in. If anything happens, now we’re prepared. That’s all it has to be now.”

“Thank you.” He turns his head to kiss Jack’s knee. “Prepared… prepared is good. I like to be prepared, we’d be wise to be. But… for now, I’ll knock first.”

“Of course. Bed? If you need to make an early start in the morning, we should turn in early tonight. I’ll get you some pajamas.”

He doesn’t know how to express his gratitude for Jack’s patience, except to take his hand and kiss his palm, and let him do all the fussing he desires, to let it soothe them both. To open his arms to Jack once they’re in bed, to hold him close and stroke at him, his hair, his arm, his chest.

The next day he leaves early enough to change at home, and when he transfers the keys to Jack’s place to a new waistcoat, alongside his own key, he thinks he understands what he needs to do. The call he needs to make. He’s doubting himself when he arrives, of course, but it’s too late once the door opens.

“Detective Watts! How good to see you again. Are you well?”

“I think, perhaps, that is… a call you might better make. No-- I’m sorry, this is _abysmal_ timing. You’ve… you’re dealing with much. And the last time I was in your home, I was… not ideal company. So, I apologize for having made a scene at dinner, and I should take my leave--”

“Oh, no, please come in.” Doctor Ogden touches his arm, before he can go. “Detective, I expect that one thing you and I have in common… we would both rather help someone else to solve a problem, than dwell on our own problems which cannot be so easily solved. Or, those which have been solved, but which leave unsatisfactory loose ends just the same.”

He nods, and allows himself to be led inside. He returns to the chaise, and makes himself as comfortable as he imagines it’s possible to be.

“Am I mentally ill?” He asks.

“I don’t think so.” She answers, in a tone of mild surprise.

“Don’t you?”

“No. I understand that you have your eccentricities, but I can’t think of a single diagnoses of serious mental illness which applies to you. You have trauma. It causes anxiety, and can lead to moments of panic or disordered thinking. It can be distressing to live with. But… if you’re asking me if I think you’re crazy, no. I do not.”

“I don’t remember much, of my childhood. I was… _in_ myself, when I was young. And I couldn’t always do things. I-- I think sometimes I was normal. I know that I… I was curious. I liked to read. I liked to be out of doors. But then sometimes I couldn’t do things.”

“What kind of things do you mean?”

“ _All of them_. I-- I don’t know, I don’t remember, except… sometimes I was an ordinary child, ordinary enough. Not normal, but not… I mean, you wouldn’t have locked me in an attic.”

“No, surely not!”

“Except sometimes. Except sometimes, when I… didn’t exist in the world, when I couldn’t move or speak or _any_ of it. I don’t know how to… I don’t know. Before my parents died, before my sister, before I lost two families, I was still not _right_. And now I’m afraid that means I can’t _be_ right. Your advice before was working, and I was doing so well. And I-- I felt so at home. And then he gave me the keys to his place and I panicked, I panicked like I was in a burning building, like I would die if I didn’t get out.”

Suddenly, he realizes his slip. He looks to her, wide-eyed, but she only looks at him expectantly, poised. 

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. Frightened myself, but I-- I didn’t go. I didn’t throw it back in-- Doctor Ogden, you… you said that… anything I tell you-- you really won’t…?”

“Anything you tell me is confidential, absolutely. Is there something you would like to tell me?”

“No. His name is Jack. My sweetheart. Lover. Whatever-- whatever you want to call it, when a man gives you the keys to his rooms and he… he loves me. He’s seen the worst parts of me, I think, and he loves me. And I love him. Real love. Because he visits his mother every week and he likes cats and he, when he works, everything he does is so _precise_ and he does it like it’s second nature. Because he likes to make sure I eat well, and he reads anything and everything… Because he’s funny. He’s kind. He knows me… no one else knows me as well.”

“He sounds wonderful. I’m glad he cares for you-- you deserve to have that.”

“Oh?”

“Of course. There’s nothing unnatural about homosexuality-- unusual, perhaps, but then any scientific study is impeded by its criminalization. We can only guess at the true scope of the variation in human sexual response. But there is no bearing on your morals, nor on the depth of your feeling.”

He collapses back onto the chaise, face turned towards the ceiling, eyes closed against sudden tears.

“I don’t want to run away from him. I don’t want to hurt him and I don’t want to lose him. He’s my _home_. I told him he was my home. So why did I panic when he gave me the keys?”

“I imagine it’s just… more of the same. You’ve been working to overcome _years_ of trauma. A single talk with me might help-- I am glad it’s helped you as much as it has. But it’s still only one talk, and it’s still always going to take time to process. You have lost two families, two homes. And you have spent much of your adult life… avoiding being tied down. You haven’t opened yourself to the possibility of having another, and you’ve been living defensively. Now, when he offers you another home, a piece of you is preparing to lose it. That has nothing to do with how much trust you place in Jack and everything to do with your previous experience. I would venture to say you’re not upset because he gave the keys to you, you’re upset because you can’t stop from anticipating the day the key won’t fit the lock. The day something takes him away. But that’s not based in your current reality.”

“The _world_ wants to take him away from me, Doctor Ogden. Maybe I’m not wrong to be afraid.”

“You’re not wrong to be cautious. But… love is worth risk, and danger, and loss. Love, when it’s real, is worth so much. And fear is a natural response that can be helpful when understood, but panic is different. Panic is not rational, and it’s hurting you.”

“So… just… just keep telling myself not to panic?”

“Just keep telling yourself that the thing that has you panicked is an imagined future, maybe subconsciously so, and not the present. And then, keep doing your best to live in the present. And you can talk to me about it whenever it’s getting to be difficult. 

“Once again, you give me much to think about. Thank you, Doctor.” He begins the process of removing himself from his position on the chaise.

“Before you go, I do have one more question to ask you-- a very important one.”

“Yes?” He pauses-- at exactly the wrong moment, having to catch himself against the thing before he can tumble off of it. Recovering, he moves to sit normally, a little sideways so he can twist to face her.

“Is he handsome?” She smiles, leaning forward.

“He has freckles. He says I ought to see them in summer, if I like them. I like them. But I’m afraid I can’t answer your question satisfactorily, I find my assessment of his physical attractiveness is far from objective fact.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Is it?”

“I think so.” She rises, and so he gets back to his feet. “I hope you’ll introduce me sometime. You make him sound a very charming gentleman. If you two were ever free for dinner, we could have you over, I’m sure we wouldn’t need to explain your relationship to justify your having a friend, to round out the table to four--”

“No. I mean, thank you, we can’t. He… he’s been-- arrested. He’s been held at stationhouse four, on… Your husband would know, that he’s a homosexual, that I only know him because… and then… I know he’s a fair man, moreso than most, but it’s asking too much. He can’t pretend not to know what he obviously knows, and he would know. But… if I ever have the chance to introduce you, I will. Jack-- he’s… He is very charming. And I think he’s beautiful.”

“I’m sure you’re correct, then. Even if it is not entirely objective fact.” She takes his arm, and walks him to the door. “And please come call on me any time you need to talk-- about your sweetheart, about how you’re handling moving forward, or about anything else at all.”

“I wouldn’t like to be a bother.”

“You’re not a bother. I find your company very pleasant, in fact. And while dinner didn’t go so well the last time, any time you would like to come to dinner with William and I alone, you’d be welcome. Honestly, I think you and William are very alike.”

“I can’t think of a man I’m _less_ like.”

“Perhaps on the surface.” She laughs. “You have very different interests, and very different preferences. Very different ways of expressing yourselves. But there is something similar about the _way_ that you are. You both see things from a different perspective, which I imagine is what makes you both so effective in your work. I think on some level you’re kindred spirits. And I think if we could just manage a peaceable dinner, you’d both enjoy yourselves.”

“Perhaps.” He allows-- perhaps on some level she’s not wrong. On some level, he thinks she is not so unlike Jack. A caretaker, someone ready with a warm smile… but someone strong and unflinchingly capable, outside of that sphere. If there are different types of person in a vague sense, and some are more compatible with others, then maybe the four of them have that in common somehow.


	24. You Kept Me From Believing Until You Let Me Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The book club starts on Llewellyn's recommendation, some time alone, and some time interrupted.

“I’m jealous.” Aldous leans over, patting Jack’s arm on his way to his own chair. “You got yours signed!”

“You could get yours signed if you like.” Llewellyn shrugs, dropping down to his now-customary spot in the parlor, leaning against Jack’s knee. “You _know_ George. Doesn’t he attend the philately meetings anymore?”

“Well, yes, but I don’t know. I didn’t think that I could ask… it seemed somehow presumptuous.”

“I’m sure he’d be pleased if you asked him. _Flattered_.”

“I don’t know. I’d feel silly-- I’d feel… embarrassed to, I think.”

“Is it so big a deal?” Glen asks, moving to the sideboard to pour himself a drink. “He’s just a man you know-- I mean, I like his book. I’m sure he’s… perfectly fine. But he’s not… I don’t know. No Andre Gide! He’s-- he’s an acquaintance, you could ask him to sign your book. Why should it be embarrassing?”

“I wouldn’t want him to think my fawning insincere.”

“You’re not insincere. You’re just… a melodrama. If he can’t tell the difference, the fault’s not in you for being effusive.”

“I just wouldn’t want to make things awkward. I like having the constable as part of our little club… I’d hate to make him feel… oh, I don’t know.”

“You like him?”

“Yes, I think he’s a very nice young man. Well-- young, I suppose we’re not really very different in age.”

Glen knocks back half his drink. “Do you want to ask him over?”

“Perhaps.” Aldous smiles, smoothing a hand over the cover of the book on his knee. “That would be nice-- you’d be able to meet him.”

“I don’t need--”

“Don’t be silly, of course you shall. I’d like that, perhaps a small group for dinner? He might be more happy to join us if we have Llewellyn and Jack along. He’d know someone else.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Though… I think we might not embarrass him by mentioning the book club.”

“I don’t think George would be _embarrassed_ to know about the book club.” Llewellyn says. Would he be, though? If George found out he’d nominated his book to be read? He doesn’t think so. It shouldn’t be embarrassing to be proud of a friend’s achievement, or to want to recommend his work.

“Glen, come and sit.” Reed urges. “We’re going to read passages.”

“I can hear from where I am.”

“Come sit with us.” Jack says-- exasperated, Llewellyn thinks, though it doesn’t change the gentle carding of his fingers through Llewellyn’s hair. “Stop being ridiculous.”

“Did you not like the book?”

“I liked the book. It was good, he-- he must have had a fascinating life to base it all on, he sounds like a fascinating man, am I not allowed to want to stand now?”

“No, no, if you like…” Aldous says.

“Stop being ridiculous.” Jack repeats, hissing it at him this time. “Glen, I swear…”

“You’re the ones holding everything up just because I’m standing somewhere different, I’m not the one being ridiculous.”

“I’ll start then, shall I? And you can-- you can come and sit as it pleases you. There’s room. If you don’t want to shift Antony, you can take my ottoman.” Aldous offers, his shoulders slumping when he gets a grunt in response. 

Through the halfway mark of the book, there’s enough to cover, though it’s not like Whitman had been-- with Whitman, they’d all been able, at both meetings, to skip around. And they’d focused by and large on those poems which spoke to them as men who found beauty and love among their own kind. With A Man Alone, there’s less in the first half to point to as relatable, but they still have favorite turns of phrase, passages that feel universally relatable even if they don’t speak to more personal experience. 

He imagines when they finish the book, someone will want to read _the_ passage, the hero’s musings on a fair and sweet-faced young man who he hopes to know well his whole life. Really, it will be a race to see who reads first, because he imagines they’ll all latch onto that bit when they get to it. Though all overt references to romance are of the heterosexual variety, the fact that so much attention is paid at one point near the end to a man’s good looks and to a longing for closeness is… well, this is the group to see more in it. 

Llewellyn wonders if George was aware when he wrote it, that he was expressing desires he’d kept buried, or if this was an early expression of it. He had been under the impression that an attraction to men was something that could be turned off and on, once, perhaps he hadn’t thought of it in such terms when writing. He doesn’t imagine Miss Newsome is put off by it, she’s his great champion, she read it before it was published-- and to the rest of the world, he has to remind himself, these things look like the bonds of brotherhood or some such. 

He wonders what he might have once written, if he’d had George’s gift for prose, back when he was only beginning to navigate his own wants and needs. He had never had George’s luck in enjoying both sexes, either, which he supposes is… it’s a two-sided thing. Yes, George is free to see women, and to go out in public with his girl on his arm, and to feel fulfilled in a relationship the world will smile on. But… there’s still a part of yourself you have to hide, and you have to hide it from the woman you’re with, if she’s not the same. Somehow that thought hurts more than having to hide from the world but having a haven in a lover.

He looks forward to the next meeting, to reaching that passage and… and to something not marred by odd, dark moods. Glen sulks and then excuses himself early, Aldous frets and then deflates, Jack is frustrated with Glen, Abram fusses over Aldous, Stephen debates Reed over following Glen in order to console _him_ , Antony goes outside to smoke alone, and Llewellyn feels at a complete loss.

“Is everyone having a falling out?” He asks at last, as he and Jack walk home-- or at least, homeward, though they are keeping an eye open for a cab along the way.

“Hm?”

“At the book club tonight. Everyone’s upset with each other, has there been a falling out?”

“You-- you don’t know?”

“No one’s told me.”

“You detectives… you miss the funniest things sometimes.” Jack says, though there’s fondness in it, and he reaches up to pat Llewellyn’s cheek as he says it. “I’ve good as _told_ Glen that Aldous isn’t interested in pursuing George that way, and he’s _still_ gone and gotten jealous. Neither of them can see the way the other moons, I’m sworn to secrecy, and they keep insisting they just want the other to be happy, as if they wouldn’t be happier crossing that finish line together.”

“Glen and Aldous?”

“Yes, you didn’t know? About any of it?”

“Glen said they weren’t lovers.” He shrugs. “I didn’t know he meant he wanted to be. He made it sound as though it was… an absurd idea to him.”

“ _Desperately_. Glen thinks he’s dull and burdensome, and that Aldous is so educated and so interesting that he could never catch his eye. Aldous thinks he’s unattractive, and unattractively academic, too niche in his interests, and that Glen is noble and brave and handsome. They each think the other could have his pick of men and neither is willing to say he _has_ picked. And they sit at that dining table two meals a day every day, and they don’t go out when they could stay in with each other and they’re both _so_ frustratingly thick. If the others didn’t know before tonight-- Abram _definitely_ did-- they know now there’s something there.”

“Incredible. I didn’t… I didn’t catch-- I caught some of that. Bits and pieces, but I didn’t… put it together right. If you asked me what I thought, I would say… they were good friends. Aldous is attracted to Glen, but that he… didn’t want to ruin the friendship by acting on the attraction, or that because he was in love with someone else, he wasn’t interested in pursuing something casual with a friend. And that Glen didn’t have any interest in Aldous like that. I… don’t know what to make of people, when they aren’t committing crimes.”

“You knew what to make of me.”

Llewellyn nods. “I hoped. When… when you said you ought to treat me next time, that night I walked you home, I thought there was hope. If you wanted to see me again, then there was hope.”

“All the flirting before then and you weren’t sure until I asked if I could buy you food?”

“When did you start flirting with me?”

“I thought we were flirting with _each other_. I-- very early. I thought you were flirting with me.”

“I’ve never… known how. I mean I have flirted with you, since then, but I’m not… always certain.” He ducks his head. He doesn’t want to lie and say of course he knew what he was doing, but he hates having to admit to another area of inexperience, inexpertise. Another blind spot where everyone else knows what they’re doing.

“Llew…” Jack takes his arm, just for a few steps, between the streetlamps. “All the things you’ve said have just been… not put-on at all? I suppose by now I should have realized, you don’t put anything on. But… I think you’re very sweet. And very brave, if you waited out there on that bench for me and you hadn’t realized I was interested in you.”

“I don’t know if I was brave. Only more afraid of not knowing you than of anything else.”

“Well, I’m glad you were, then. I did send you a few signals. I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t-- if we’d never seen each other again.”

They wind up with a cab, to take them halfway back to Jack’s. He stays-- he can’t not, with the way Jack looks at him. He looks at him like he’s seeing him for the first time and he likes what he sees. It’s just as compelling as it once was, only now Llewellyn has learned how to accept his love.

He just wants to fall asleep with him, to shelter in each other’s arms. He just wants what he wants every night, to be close, to be together. He just wants…

He wants to belong to Jack, forever. To not have to part from him just to keep them safe. 

They fall into bed, they reach for each other. Fingertips skim over face, chest, belly, up and down arms, thighs, backs… It’s not about sex, though that’s where things are headed. It’s just about being… it’s about carrying the feeling of safety a little further, holding onto a world where they can have what any man has. Jack makes the first move towards deepening the physical connection, the familiar overture that is his hand, warm, his grip just too loose, the practiced twist and slide just until Llewellyn is hard. 

“Roll over?” He urges, and so Llewellyn complies, lets Jack arrange them so that he’s rutting between his thighs, so that he’s reaching around to work him, grip firmer now. So that he’s kissing his neck… a little different from how they’ve done before, but he likes it. He likes the arm that worms under him so that it can wrap around his chest, so that Jack can hold him tight…

It feels right, that’s all that matters. The hand on his chest strokes through his chest hair, tugs at a nipple, and he rocks back, squeezes his thighs together to make a tighter channel, thinks about how he longs to be… he longs to do things, half conceived of. He longs to be seated in Jack’s lap, filled, as it had once been suggested to him. He longs to use his mouth again, or his hands, or to feel Jack against any part of him, the intimate communion of skin on skin. He longs to do more in so many directions… and then, Jack finishes between his thighs, smothering the softest low sound against his shoulder, and all his longings are fulfilled. 

They catch their breath, they clean up, and then they wind up in the same position, Jack tucked along his back with an arm around his waist.

“My man.” Jack sighs, and kisses the back of his neck. “You… astonish me. I love you.”

“Mm. I love you.” He smiles, and drapes his arm over Jack’s, laces their fingers together. “My man.”

It’s a pleasant night, and a pleasant morning-- Jack almost sets him to the task of chopping potatoes up for a hash, only to take it back from him when he declares his knife work appalling. Still, well… he gets to watch him and learn-- even if most of what he learns is that Jack is far better suited to knifework than he is.

It’s a morning that allows for a lingering goodbye, compared to some-- neither of them have to go in to work, goodbye can wait for evening. They settle into a single chair after breakfast just to spend a while pressed close together, Jack a welcome weight in his lap this time. He likes that-- not that he’s ever minded being pulled into Jack’s. There’s something comforting about being pressed down into the chair, Jack resting on his thighs and leaning against his chest. Not something sexual, the way it had been the first time Jack had wound up in his lap, when they’d traded heated kisses, when their hands had roamed… This time, it’s merely comfort and safety. It makes him feel grounded, part of the world. 

Jack plays with his hair, and beams at him, and he lets himself drift a while just holding him and feeling him. Feeling _real_. Being comfortable in his body, the way he so often isn’t, but he is when Jack is on top of him, in a way that’s not only about sex. He loves when Jack is pressing him down into the mattress to make love to him, but that isn’t what makes his body feel normal and comfortable, it’s the weight and pressure. It fixes something in him. He doesn’t know how to explain it.

His hands drift to Jack’s lower back, kneading, and he watches in awe as Jack’s head tips back, as he lets out a low moan.

“Good?”

“Oh, right there-- dig in harder.”

“Like this?” He presses the heels of his hands down over Jack’s hips, then slides down firm back towards the center of his lower back, and out again, making sweeping circles to either side of the base of his spine. 

“ _Perfect_ …”

“Is this where you get tense?”

“Sore, sometimes, when there’s a lot of heavy lifting. Which… there is. A good pig’s over five hundred pounds full grown, even broken down into parts it’s a lot-- still have to get every part shifted if I start. Steer’s almost five times that. And there’s bending, reaching… a lot of work.”

“You should have been asking me to do this for you.”

“I don’t think about it.” He snorts. “It’s what you get used to… felt good when you started doing my shoulders too, but I never thought about asking… I’m not used to asking. Or...”

“Getting?” Llewellyn nods. “You can ask me.”

“I know. We’re a pair, aren’t we?”

“We are. I thought that was a good thing?”

“It is.” Jack kisses him. “We’re a good thing. I just forget, with how much I like to take care of you, that I could use a little seeing to sometimes. You’re the man I want seeing to me.”

They kiss again, again… soft and soothing and sweet, Jack’s hands cupping his face, stroking lightly at his cheek or rubbing firmer against the stubble of his jaw.

“I’ll see to you. Next time I can come? I’ll take care of you.”

“You can take care of me, and I’ll take care of you. I like you…” He sighs. “I like you like this.”

“Do you mean the lap or the massage?”

“The scruff.” He scratches gently at it. “Very…”

“Untidy?”

“I was going to say _virile_. But if you insist, very untidy.” Jack kisses the end of his nose. 

Llewellyn leans in, rubbing his chin against Jack’s throat, where his shirt is collarless and open to allow for the intimacy. “If that’s what you like.”

“Ohh, it _is_ … when I don’t have work.”

“You _don’t_ have work.” He nips at him, grinning when Jack laughs and tugs at his hair. “Nor do I, until tomorrow.”

“No… I don’t. Mmm… finish rubbing my back and I’ll read to you. Then maybe… out, for lunch?”

“Oh, please.” He kisses his way up Jack’s throat, to the underside of his chin, and then along his jaw. “... in just one minute more.”

“No, now I’m thinking about your hands on me, I can’t wait.” He pulls away, leaving Llewellyn’s lap and pulling his shirt off. “Grab me any book you like.”

Jack throws himself onto the bed, rearranging the pillows and making himself comfortable, and Llewellyn picks up one of his books of poetry-- not, he imagines, something that will speak to him as much as Whitman or Wilde or the sonnets of Shakespeare, but something that will have Jack’s voice fall into a pleasant cadence as he works on him. 

“Balm in the nightstand drawer.” Jack directs. “The green tin. For my lower back?”

The green tin isn’t the same lotion Jack had used to massage him before-- it has a stronger scent, his nose wrinkles at it. It’s warm on the skin, though. After longer days than usual, after coming home and washing off the smell of blood, did he often have to reach back to rub it into his own skin? He supposes on the nights they’ve spent together, they’ve both found ways of distracting each other from things, from their usual routines, but he hates that this is something he could have been doing. That for two months of long, hard days, he could have done this. Or perhaps… for two months, there haven’t been days so bad, and he only thinks of it now because the offer’s been made.

“I could do this for you any night I’m here, you know.” He says, in case Jack doesn’t. 

“I should let you.” Jack sighs, and starts reading. 

The occasional sigh or soft moan interrupts, as Llewellyn works on him. It would be a nice routine, he thinks. To come home just as Jack was showered, to ask him how his back was feeling. They would trade massages while dinner was in the oven, some nights, even most nights. Wash up and eat, talk about their days… Jack might feed him some of their meal, or dessert if they had some. Bed, together. To make love, if they weren’t too tired. To curl up in each other’s arms if they were. To sleep and wake and breakfast and kiss each other goodbye before work, to come home again, to…

To have the life anyone else might have had.

“Lamb…” Jack closes the book. How he knows, when Llewellyn’s hands haven’t faltered… how he knows, when it’s too much to bear, he doesn’t know. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” He whispers, his tongue feeling thick. “I just think… I’d rather stay in.”

“I think so would I.” Jack agrees.

There are so many things he wants to say. To apologize for his sudden melancholy on what had been such a lovely day, to apologize for being what he is, whatever that may be. To thank Jack for understanding anyway, always. To explain his train of thought. Instead, he lies down beside Jack, and presses his forehead to Jack’s shoulder, and for a long while, the room is quiet.

Jack doesn’t press him about the episode. They spend most of the day in bed, and the lethargy of it feels wrong, but so does everything else in the world. 

“I should go home tonight.” He says at last, as Jack checks on supper.

“I expected… and I want you to be safe.” He sets his spoon down and moves to cup Llewellyn’s cheek. “Even if it means not having you with me, every night.”

“That… that’s what-- Not having you with me every night. I want to do this for you every night. Rub your back, wash your dishes after dinner, if we don’t just fall into bed. Wash them in the morning if we did.” He takes Jack’s hand, holding it between his own. “And instead I steal nights with you. And I don’t know what to do to take care of you.”

“You do take care of me. But… Lamb, when I take care of you, it’s because it fulfills me, in more ways than I can define. I worry… I worry you think I couldn’t love you if you didn’t do the same. I want you to know I do. Maybe I’ve been wrong. Maybe I should have asked you from the start. But… every time you talk like you expect me to leave you, I think… I think I can’t let you. I can’t let you think I need you to. I’m sorry… if that wasn’t what you needed. I just… I thought-- you had to know it was enough, to come home and let me care for you. You had to know I see the things you already do and they matter to me, and that I don’t have to ask for more to feel like you’re enough.”

“I-- I’m more upset about the part where I don’t live with you and I don’t have your picture on my desk. I don’t have a desk. But if I did, I mean. But… thank you, for-- thank you. I would like to do this for you. But that’s not what’s upset me.”

Jack pulls their joined hands up to his lips, kisses both of Llewellyn’s.

“We’ll do better at this. It’s only been two months, we’re not exactly old hands yet. It’s… it’s only been two months and I feel like this. I think I know what you mean, about… I don’t have your picture on my desk, either. But I have one here. And every night I don’t have you, I can kiss your photograph goodnight. And I know it’s not enough, it’s not what everyone else gets. But it’s so much more than I thought. You’re so much more than I thought.”

Supper is still subdued, after that, but less so than it might have been. Jack kisses him goodbye at the door, warmly, arms strong around him. All he wants is to be held tighter, tighter still, and he can’t make himself ask. Even with a day apart ahead of them, he can’t make himself say the words.

It’s all unfair, but he always knew it would be. Silly of him to be bent out of shape about it now.

He can’t talk to Doctor Ogden about the matter-- she’s out of town, with Murdoch. On what business precisely, he doesn’t know. He’s working from Murdoch’s office as necessary until their return, and that’s all he’s needed to know. The morning doesn’t bring anything vital, though he waits until his lunch break to visit Jack, slipping in before he closes for lunch.

His spirits lift over the course of it, sitting back in the office and letting Jack feed him a half sandwich, some grapes. Returning the favor, with the grapes, for the little thrill of lips against his fingertips. It’s not as heavy as it sometimes gets, the feeling between them and the look in Jack’s eye-- though there is some of that. It’s playful, Jack teases him a little and strokes his cheek a little, and smiles at him a lot. 

“In a drawer.” He says, out of the blue, taking the grape he’d had idly resting against his own lower lip and popping it into Llewellyn’s mouth. 

“Hm?”

“If you had a second photograph, I couldn’t put it on my desk. I could keep it in a drawer.”

“I haven’t got a drawer.”

“I’ll think of something for you, then.” Jack promises, and leans forward to kiss his cheek.

“Or… pictures of myself. I-- well, I could get one taken.”

“Not if you’d have to go to any trouble, but I would like that. To get to look at you.”

He clears the tray away, and Llewellyn goes about opening the shop back up as he handles that, before they drift back to the counter, Jack on his side and Llewellyn opposite, but both leaning towards each other.

“A current photograph, then… you’d like that? For your desk drawer?”

“Yes. So I can look at my handsome man whenever I need to. For that matter, I would remind you, the photograph you have of _me_ , I am dressed for a swim.” He waggles his eyebrows. “So if you could see fit to be photographed similarly attired-- oh, no, I’d have to keep _that_ one by my bed…”

“Mister Walker, am I just a piece of meat to you?” Llewellyn grins and blushes and ducks his head.

“Yes.” He leans over the counter on his folded arms, nodding his head to indicate the shop around them. “If by that you mean does my life revolve around you?”

“ _Oh_.” His face heats further. A little teasing might be one thing, but he hadn’t been prepared for it to become _romantic_. “Um… okay. All right.”

“Does it help if you’re an exceptional piece of meat?”

“I’m not sure I could handle that. I thought I was lamb.”

“Not in front of the meat. And… hanger steak. I mean-- if I had to choose what piece of meat you were. I’m sorry, I’m hearing this now and it’s--”

“That’s really sweet.”

“Oh, good. I was afraid it was strange.”

“Maybe. So am I.” Llewellyn shrugs. “Jack…”

They’re interrupted by the arrival of Margaret Brackenreid, they have to pull back hard from each other, but her mood is distracted and upset, she doesn’t notice Llewellyn before he can slip out, focused on her errands. He waves goodbye from the door, before he makes his way back to the stationhouse.


	25. But Let's Talk About It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dinner party and an evening full of self-discovery... even if some discoveries only lead to more questions.

Jack is already at Aldous’ house, had left work as soon as he was free to be able to head over and start on dinner. Llewellyn’s job is just to get George there, for what is either a very good idea or a very bad one. He’d initially assumed it would be a good one, and that George could get something out of spending time with men he could talk about men with, but he’d also initially assumed that there was no chance of George causing any sort of interpersonal strife within Aldous’ household, of which Glen was… somewhat a part and somewhat not. Well, possibly actually meeting George would remove the question from Glen’s mind-- he’d learn George was spoken for and he’d see that George and Aldous primarily discuss stamps in a non-romantic way, and maybe he would notice… well, any of the things that Llewellyn half-noticed, in watching the two, and failed to arrange into the complete picture.

“George… you’re good with people.” He says, as they start off towards Aldous’. By car, which is convenient, he supposes, though he’s not used to it. He’s taken a few cabs but one doesn’t ride in the front seat of a cab-- he uses a bicycle for speed when it’s a work matter, but he’s mostly used to walking.

“I’m pleased you think so, Sir.”

“It’s an objective fact, I would hardly be a reasonable man if I couldn’t agree with an objective fact. You… it’s part of why you write so well, you know people’s hearts, their thoughts, you can extrapolate what a man is feeling and you know how it looks on him. I… I can’t do that. I mean… I know how to determine guilt and innocence, I know about marks of anger or cruelty and whether someone is genuine in grief when it doesn’t display as some think it ought, and I know more than I think most in our profession do about spotting when someone is concealing a secret. I am very good at those things. Not… not other things, with people.”

“I think it’s more useful in the line of duty that you know how to spot someone keeping a secret.”

“Mm. Yes. I once believed nothing else mattered. But I have come to realize that… as I find myself with friends now, I-- I miss things, about their lives. There are things that aren’t discussed but which people _know_. I wonder if I would be a better friend if I understood those things. When friends are having private troubles they can’t or won’t speak openly on, would I be a better friend if I could see what bothered them? If I had a keener insight onto human emotion? Not seeing these things, I sometimes say and do the wrong thing. I didn’t care about that, before-- I didn’t care if I accidentally rubbed people the wrong way, I considered it immaterial-- it should only matter that my intentions were not to cause harm and that my work was impeccable, I thought a reasonable person should be able to set aside offense in light of that. Now, I have friends, and… the idea of hurting them by my clumsiness no longer leaves me as easy as it once did. Emotions… have some bearing on life.”

“You’re not an unkind man, Sir.” George nods. “I think you’re accustomed to caring deeply about a very big picture-- doing good in the world by doing the best job you could as a detective, or… caring about the plight of people on a grand scale! And that’s very different from having to think of the problems or the feelings of only one person. Emotions have a great deal of bearing on life, I think. But they can be difficult. Oftentimes we see what we want to see in people. Whether it’s trying to see the best in someone who’s not all you thought of them, or seeing our own feelings reflected in someone else because we hope so badly to have them returned, or just assuming that your friend will feel the same as you do about something and discovering you’ve reacted differently. Now I’m pretty good at it I suppose, though I don’t like to brag, but I’ve done all those things. Sometimes even recently! And jumped to conclusions and not corrected my assumptions quickly enough, and hurt feelings… I mean being good at a thing doesn’t mean getting it right every time. And being bad at a thing doesn’t mean getting it wrong every time. It just means… it takes more work to learn to be good at it.”

“That’s very good, George. That-- I must remember that. ‘It takes more work to learn to be good at it’, that’s reassuring to me. I… I have often perceived myself to be unlike people, normal people. But I can still learn. I have learned. I have changed my views based on new information. I have begun to catalog the meanings of things which had been a mystery-- I once learned everything I needed to know for work, is it so different to read a man’s face and his posture to determine his guilt or the threat he poses than to determine his mood? If I can determine whether a man has secrets in the course of an investigation, why couldn’t I learn to determine whether a man has secrets which… which a friend might help him with?”

“I think so. Anyway, if you’re unlike other people, is it a bad thing? I shouldn’t like the world very much if people were all alike.”

“It’s different. It’s all these things which I see in myself that I don’t see in others, which… no one can understand in me.”

“I suppose I can understand that. I have… I have one thing in myself, which is different enough from most. Which I never got the opportunity to talk to Emily about, but which I don’t know anyone else who understands it. I was slow enough to realize it, I suppose I missed my chance. But I don’t know how you… find that particular thing out about people.”

“Yes, it’s… difficult. But… that particular thing-- I mean, the half of that particular thing that I am-- it’s not what’s wrong with me. I mean it’s not _wrong_. I know now that it can’t be. I don’t think it’s related to what _is_ wrong. I don’t see how it could be. Ah-- but about that particular thing. That is… You can talk freely, about things, at this dinner.”

“What, in front of everyone?”

“Yes. We… we all have that… particular thing in common.”

“ _Mister Germaine_ does? But-- in that whole business, with the philately case, he was only involved on the-- the one side!”

“Ah… yes. Well. He’s… more the quiet, at-home sort. But… yes. I-- I explained that you were amenable, that you knew about me and were protecting me. I don’t think I explained your own situation satisfactorily, but you’ll be able to.”

“Well! What a small world, I suppose. I think it’s just nice to be invited, myself. I think it’s awfully nice of you to have suggested me for inclusion.”

“Well, Aldous likes you, and Jack would be happy to see you again--

“Oh, did he like the book, Sir?”

“I was going to let him tell you himself.” He smiles. “And-- we’re going to a dinner party, George. As… friends. Maybe… you could call me ‘Llewellyn’. For the duration of dinner, at least.”

“Well I can try, Sir, but it hardly seems right to somehow.” George says.

They pull up in front of the house. Aldous opens the door and ushers them in, taking coats. 

“Jack’s in the kitchen.” He tells Llewellyn. “Attempting to teach Glen how to do something to a vegetable. Constable Crabtree, welcome to our humble abode!”

“Our, is it? I don’t believe I’ve met your-- ah… paramour.”

“Oh-- well, no, he’s not… not that. But… it’s a big empty house without him, just the same. I am so glad to get to introduce you. And the dining room is right through here--”

Llewellyn moves through to the kitchen, letting the conversation fade. Jack is lecturing Glen about something in hushed tones, the two of them bent over the stove. He comes to lean against the counter nearby, smiling when Jack turns and spots him, straightening up.

“Llew! Come and kiss me.” He presents his cheek, hands occupied with a pan of sauteing vegetables. He has Glen babysitting a saucepan, it looks like-- everything smells good when Llewellyn leans over to kiss his cheek and take a look at dinner. 

“What’s this?”

“Sprouts, fennel, and onions. Did another crown roast by popular request.” Jack smiles and kisses his cheek in return, and points out where the meat is resting. “Potatoes are in the oven.”

“Roasted or baked?”

“Baked.”

“Mm.”

“Noted, it’ll be roasted next time.” He laughs.

“Baked is good, too.” He promises, and kisses Jack’s cheek again. “Love you. Love your cooking.”

“Love you. Love that you love my cooking.”

“Do I get a kiss?” Glen teases. 

“Oh-- did… is that-- Do we do that?”

“He’s joking.” Jack says. 

“I mean some people do.” Glen shrugs. “But I was joking, yes. Can you take this? I should… go and be introduced to your constable.”

“Be _nice_.”

“I’m nice.”

Jack sighs, shaking his head, as Llewellyn takes Glen’s place at the stove. 

“How are cooking lessons going?” 

“Not much of a lesson.” He bumps their hips together. “But he’s not hopeless, just untaught. How was your day?”

“Good. Just… going over reports. Paperwork… not my favorite. But, it was important paperwork, from a case I worked.” He smiles, with a slight tilt of the chin. “You?”

“Good-- very good. Business was good, but not too busy I couldn’t get away early. And… Aldous has offered us the guest room again. If you liked.”

“Oh? And did we… need the guest room?”

“It might be nice. Not to worry about who might see us, tonight. Or who might hear us…” He bites his lip. 

“Well. Maybe it would. I didn’t pack.”

“You never remember to pack when you come to mine. You packed _once_. Halfway.”

“Now that’s a very good point.”

Jack turns the stove off, both burners, and Llewellyn helps him get everything plated and carried out. George seems to be enjoying himself, at least, though Glen is brooding as he pours the wine.

“George!” Jack greets. “I enjoyed your book.”

“Oh, did you? I’m so glad-- I’ve been well-received, apparently.”

“Of _course_ you have been.” Aldous shows him to a chair. “The praise has been well-deserved. We’ve all liked it very much.”

They all settle into their seats and Jack carves into the crown roast-- he and George discuss cooking, and then George and Aldous have a brief sidebar on philately while Glen looks rather off. 

Finally, after a bit of fidgeting, George asks the question Llewellyn thinks he’s been sitting on a while.

“So!” He says, still toying with the bone of his chop. “Men, eh? I mean-- Is it… nice? Because I’ve thought it must be, I’ve just never… I’ve only dated girls, see. Which is fine. I like the girl I’m seeing very much, really. It’s just that a part of me wishes that, once, perhaps some years ago even, I might have _tried_ courting a man. And then I’d know what it’s like and I suppose I’d be content with the state of things.”

“It’s very nice.” Jack says gently, and his hand steals over to rest on Llewellyn’s leg, beneath the table. Only for a moment, but it’s nice. “At least it is with the right man.”

“It’s just funny, you know, because of course I know all the things you can do with a lady that you couldn’t do with a man-- I mean, going out in public and the like! But aren’t there things you could do with a man and not a lady? I mean, you can’t borrow a lady friend’s clothing! And such-like.”

“I know more than one man who’d wear ladies’ clothing, but most of those wouldn’t borrow it from a lady friend.” Glen says, and Llewellyn is just as surprised by that as George is.

“Really?”

“At certain types of parties. Though that’s never really been my type.”

“Yes, I’m sure it wouldn’t be mine, either. I mean I certainly like seeing a lady dressed in something flattering, but the things I like about women… isn’t the same as what I like about men. I’ve really only recently given much thought to _what_ it is about a man I could like. But it’s definitely different. I notice a man’s shoulders, sometimes.”

“Ah, yes.” Aldous sighs. “There’s something so _reassuring_ about a man with good shoulders. _Stalwart_.”

“I always notice a man’s hands.” Jack’s voice is soft. “Whether he keeps them neat, if they look bigger than mine, if they seem strong or delicate…”

“How he uses them.” Glen adds, to Llewellyn’s emphatic hum of agreement. “If he’s expressive with them, when he talks, or just… Neatness. When a man keeps his appearance neat, and you know that means he’s careful… it means he takes his time to make things right. When a man always does himself up impeccably, when he pays attention to all the details, it shows he has standards, and he notices the little things.”

“The way a man walks.” Aldous looks down at his plate, rearranges his silverware and turns his wine glass just slightly. “The way a man _moves_. How it feels to have your attention _arrested_ by the way he crosses the room sometimes. If a man is graceful, confident…”

“Oh, or sports.” George nods, his nerves seeming less. “When you’re playing sports with the lads, and-- well, like you said, how he moves sometimes.”

“I wouldn’t know much about sport, I’m afraid.” Aldous laughs softly. “Though there’s a certain joy in spectating, now and then.”

“I never had the coordination for team sports.” Llewellyn frowns. “And I don’t care for… It just seems like there are always balls coming directly at the face.”

“Oh, well I never had a problem with _that_.” Aldous says, and Glen and Jack both snort, both laugh into their hands, while George coughs. 

“Locker rooms.” Jack shakes his head. “I couldn’t join any sports clubs just knowing there’d be a locker room. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to look, that no one else would even think about it, that I’d… stand out somehow.”

“I didn’t have a problem with that, exactly.” George says. “But I have to say I don’t care for locker rooms. Just… the indignity of it sometimes, if all the other fellows are better looking than you are. You know, if you’re undressing next to someone and he’s… taller, broader in the chest a bit, firmer of stomach. And maybe he’s not the sort to notice men anyhow, but you feel a bit self-conscious when you’re undressing next to someone very attractive and you’re sort of… maybe moderately gifted yourself.”

“We should have a sports club. I mean… one that’s just our sort. There are enough of us in Toronto. Even discounting the less athletically inclined, it would be enough for something.”

“Oh, no, then I’d be even more self-conscious. Well, what sport would it be? Only I suppose it doesn’t matter, I mean, if I don’t _want_ to carry on with a man, what with my being in a relationship, it shouldn’t matter to me if I’m not a prize specimen.”

“Whatever we have the people for, I suppose.” Glen shrugs. “I don’t have _a_ sport, but I do all right with whatever I’ve been given to do on a team. I’m not fussy. It would just be nice… having more to do, now. Besides, we’d… if we had two teams of people among us, we’d be able to invite everyone else to watch, when we arranged matches.”

He glances over towards Aldous at this-- something that now seems significant, now that Llewellyn knows.

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t be a very popular, ah, social activity.” George is quick to agree. “I mean, I don’t know if I’m eligible to join, being as I’m something sort of halfway--”

“I don’t think that’s anyone’s business. There are men who arrange marriages to women, many of whom manage to feel things for women as well as men, your having a lady friend wouldn’t preclude you entrance.” Aldous says. “You’re not the only man blessed with twice the room in his heart for romance as most have.”

“I’m not? I mean, I did hope I wasn’t, I just… I didn’t know. I knew a girl I used to court, Emily, that she’d… but I only knew of me and her, and we didn’t much get to discuss the matter before she moved away.”

“Oh, yes. Membership to our loose association is not based in avoidance of womankind, only in embracing our fellow man, as it were. Glen, you must know a few, who…”

“Yes. Did you know Ambrose? One of Owen’s friends?”

“Ambrose _never_.” Jack shakes his head. 

“No, but he’d bring a partner who does. I can’t remember the boy’s name. Pretty thing, we all just called him Dorian Gray, I don’t know if anyone ever properly introduced me to him by his real name… but he talked about men and women both. Not that anyone of either sex could pry him off Ambrose, but he was free with talk.”

“I never knew Ambrose with a partner.” Jack says. “I hope having something steady is good for him. When we ran in the same circle…”

“I think so. He was one of those… I think he was too easy to take advantage of. I mean don’t get me wrong, I loved running with the wild bunch when we were younger, too, it was exciting. There was always something to do, someplace to go, someone to spend your time with… but I wasn’t a boy with a big heart, not in that way. I loved pretty readily, as a friend, but I wasn’t looking to settle into a romance yet, so it couldn’t really hurt me if no one else was, either. But a boy who wanted forever with one man could get eaten alive looking for it.”

“Yes.” Jack’s jaw is tight, and Llewellyn reaches over, takes his hand where it rests on the table and wraps his own around it. 

“Then I suppose it’s nice your friend Ambrose has met someone who might be… steady.”

“Yes.” He softens, squeezing Llewellyn’s hand. “Yes, that’s… definitely a good thing.”

“I never fit in with those types. I suppose I’m really rather boring.” Aldous laughs, though it doesn’t sound especially mirthful. Glen just gawps at him a long moment.

“ _Boring_?”

“Yes. You know… sitting home when there are parties, never… going out dancing and drinking with all the pretty young things. Celibate for a… _length_ of time-- not sure if it’s better or worse that it’s voluntarily so.”

“You have more hobbies than any man I _know_. Aldous Germaine, if you are a boring man, there’s really no hope for the rest of us.”

“Oh, hush.” He smiles.

“To go back to the subject of attractive traits in a man, I think intelligence.” Jack says, with a sidelong _look_. The slightest smile. 

“Definitely intelligence.” Glen nods.

“I think everyone at this table can appreciate a man who’s well-read.” Aldous says.

“I don’t know, really. I mean it’s all very well, I certainly appreciate the written word.” George shrugs, squirming a little the more attention falls to him. “But need a man be particularly intelligent? I mean… if a man is good company, and his heart is more or less in the right place, and his smile is a nice sort of a smile, and he’s just… sort of a bit tall, with shoulders… Well, I just think, couldn’t you forgive a lack of intellectual prowess, if he had those other things.”

“I don’t know, just how nice the smile and how good the shoulders?” 

“Oh, Mister Germaine, the man I refer to is… a fine specimen, really. I mean he drives me crazy, but I wouldn’t change him.”

Llewellyn’s brow furrows. He hadn’t realized there was a specific man, at present. That there may have been, before, he’d spoken to fancying a particular man but he’d thought it was something in his past. If it’s someone still in George’s life now, does he know him? Not that he knows everyone George does, but they are friends, and they know enough of the same people. 

“Nothing wrong with a man who drives you a little bit crazy.” Glen smiles. “The men who can’t drive you crazy now and then can’t be truly important to you.”

“It doesn’t matter, of course. We’d never have-- he’d never have. And Effie’s a lovely girl, bright and accomplished and ambitious, and with a good heart of her own, even if she doesn’t like to wear it out in the open much. I’m not sorry to be with her. It’s just that for _years_ I couldn’t admit to having feelings for another man, for years I couldn’t admit it even to myself, and now all of a sudden I’m unstoppered! And I can talk about him to people, and it’s… My memories are all in a new light. I think of times I didn’t let myself feel a certain way about his smiling at me, I think of times when I couldn’t say what it was the sight of him did to me. Times I worried over him and said it was only natural to, for a friend. I never got to think about him properly, before I moved past him, and so now… I’m past and not past. Everyone’s happier with things as they are, I just never got to really… I never got to do it right. Whatever that means.”

_Higgins_. He means Higgins. There’s no one else he thinks he could mean. Higgins, who is… so entirely devoted to his wife. That must be hard… it would be hard enough to love a man who couldn’t love you back simply because he lacked the inclination towards your sex, but to see him in bliss with someone else, to have been best man at his wedding… 

He can’t imagine seeing Jack with someone else, watching him happy and smiling in another man’s arms and having to wonder-- or not even wondering, simply being sure he wouldn’t have had a chance. 

“Effie’s a good woman.” He says. “It’s only natural to dwell on what you didn’t have, now that you’re in a place where it’s safe to talk about it… but I’m glad you’ve got someone who wants to look after you now. At least… when you grapple with what you weren’t allowed, you’re not alone.”

“I should have explored before I was ready to settle down, really, that’s what it comes down to. I… I couldn’t have been with the man I-- the man I mention. But I could have possibly… well. Then I’d have answers to all these questions. There are things one doesn’t ask over a dinner table.”

“I think you’ll find in this company, the conversation is permitted to be quite free.” Aldous assures him.

“Oh, I don’t know if it’s _this_ free.”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with, we are.”

George doesn’t ask-- not during dinner. But, when there are cards after, and coffee, he ventures a question about sex, and receives a far more thorough answer than he’d expected, with Aldous and Glen and Jack taking it in turns to explain as much as possible.

“Goodness, Sir, did you find it all so overwhelming to learn about?”

“Well, it was… different, for me.” Llewellyn admits, face warm. “I was more of a… hands on learner.”

“Oho, ohh.” George chuckles, in spite of his own embarrassment. “Very good.”

It’s a good evening overall. Glen must see something in the way George and Aldous get along that eases his earlier jealousy and makes him friendly and amenable. George offers Jack and Llewellyn a ride home, which they decline in favor of the guest room, and George doesn’t begrudge their heading upstairs a little early. Their goodbyes are warm enough, it doesn’t make so much difference if it’s because they’re making their way to bed rather than because George is leaving.

They begin with the bath, as they had before. With the both of them relaxing in the heat of the water, in a shared silence, before Jack prepares him. Before they move down the hall to turn the covers down on the big, plush bed. 

This time, Jack lies down on his back, and guides Llewellyn down onto his cock. It’s different-- it’s a lot. But it’s always a lot. And Jack is looking up at him as if he’s never seen anything so perfect. He runs his hands up Llewellyn’s thighs, once he’s fully seated and adjusting to the feel at this angle.

“Good?” He asks, and one hand keeps on going, warm as it fondles him.

“Good.” He nods. “I-- I like being under you, for other reasons, but… good.”

“I’m glad. Because I think you’re incredible… and I want you to have a good time. And… if it’s not too selfish of me, I want to lie back and watch you.”

“Not too selfish, no, I don’t think. I still get what I want.” He rocks his hips just a little first, experimental. “How’s your back?”

“Good, after that soak.” He goes back to stroking his thighs, as Llewellyn lifts himself up, as he lowers himself again. “Oh God, Llewellyn, just look at you…”

“Me?”

“ _You_. Everything about you.” And one hand rest at the top of a thigh while the other travels over the flat of his belly, touch light. “How you feel and how you look, and how you make me feel… I love you.”

“I love you.” He covers Jack’s hand with his own, leans forward to let Jack move up his chest, up to cup his face. He kisses at his wrist. “Ohh, I love you. I-- you look at me like that and I…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know what to feel. And I just feel everything.”

Jack nods, wordless. He pulls Llewellyn’s hand to his own lips, sucks at a couple of fingers as he rocks up into him, the two of them working to meet each other. It takes some time to work out a rhythm that works, with Llewellyn grinding down against Jack between every lift upwards. 

After a while of hands roaming where they will, Jack gets one around him, he pulls him off as he continues to ride Jack’s cock, and his thighs are trembling, and he doesn’t want it to be over but he’s not sure how much more he can take, and Jack still looks up at him in such abject awe…

“Are you getting close for me, lamb?” Jack asks him, voice low and thick with pleasure. “Can you finish for me?”

Something in him twists, low in his gut, something that has nothing to do with Jack’s hand, Jack’s cock-- _lamb_ , now, here… He’s loved being Jack’s lamb, he’d felt a thrill at the start, but it’s so _much_ to hear it now. 

He doesn’t know how to ask to hear it again. He doesn’t think he could if he tried. He can’t form words just in this moment, can only whimper and rock between the grip on him and the cock filling him, feeling the pleasure build and tighten.

But Jack sees him-- he should have trusted, Jack sees him.

“Lamb?” He licks his lips. “Is that so? Are you-- are you my sweet… dear… lamb? And do you need me to take good care of you?”

He spills over Jack’s hand, over his belly, with a whimper. Jack rolls up into him with a moan, and then he’s moaning, his eyes rolling back, and Llewellyn feels boneless, helpless, but Jack is…

Jack holds him, Jack keeps him… contained. Makes the moment of helplessness safe.

It’s unbearable to remain connected and unbearable to part. He watches Jack touch his fingers to the mess on his stomach, watches the rise and fall of his chest, flushed and damp with sweat, as he comes down. 

He lifts himself up at last, though his legs still feel like jelly, and he can only do his best to control his collapse, lying half on top of Jack. Jack surprises him, hand sliding down, finger tracing the now-loose rim of his hole. 

“Too much?” He pauses, at Llewellyn’s whine.

“Too much. But… maybe I like it.”

He slides that finger in, then, and out, until Llewellyn truly can’t take more teasing, his other hand cradling the back of Llewellyn’s head, keeping him close, pressed to the crook of his neck where he’s curled up against him.

“You’re incredible.” Jack sighs. “Everything about you.”

“Jack… Jack, will you-- could you--?”

“Clean my lamb up?” He asks, when Llewellyn can’t finish.

The thrill that runs through him is made physical, a shiver that Jack soothes with stroking and kisses. He doesn’t know what to make of it, he’s too wrung out to make anything of anything. All he knows is that he had needed it, and Jack had provided.


	26. And Through It All The Rise And Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another stint as a temporarily important man, and something of a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, computer/internet woes have been plaguing me.

When he comes into work on a Monday morning only to be quietly ushered into Inspector Brackenreid’s office and told he’s in charge of the station, he doesn’t know _where_ the inspector is, and he doesn’t know why. He knows Murdoch is also not in. When he calls the house to see if he can expect him to be running late, there’s no answer, and when he calls the hospital in hopes of asking Doctor Ogden if she knew her husband’s whereabouts, they informed him she’d not come in. He’d expected George to not be in, given he’d embarked upon his tour-- then again, the first couple of speaking engagements had been in Toronto, and it is a relief to see him in the bullpen when he’s again taking charge with neither Inspector Brackenreid nor Detective Murdoch around. George is here, which means this isn’t like what had happened at the convention, which means they haven’t all been kidnapped leaving him to founder alone. 

He’d only seen Doctor Ogden the day before, he’s not sure how she and Murdoch could be _gone_ without any word about Murdoch at the station. No one can tell him what’s happened with Brackenreid, either, beyond telling him he’d wanted him taking charge rather than calling in someone from outside. 

Which at least means wherever he is, he expects to be safe, otherwise he’d have called in a proper replacement-- or not been able to leave word. As for Murdoch, where he can be… he was at their house the day before! He hadn’t been able to bring himself to ask Doctor Ogden if he was… if there was something abnormal about him, sexually. If the way he’d reacted his most recent night with Jack was… if it indicated something was _wrong_ with him somehow. He’d gone hoping to know, and then he’d been too afraid. Instead they’d talked about other things. 

Mostly, about his habit of assigning himself blame for things he’d had no real hand in, and while he’d argued a few cases against himself-- he thinks not wrongly-- she had made a fair point. He had developed the habit of… rearranging the narrative, after the fact. Blaming himself for things he was tangentially involved in at best, or taking blame for things which had happened prior to his involvement in matters. She’d gone over Jackson’s death in particular, and explained to him in no uncertain terms how he’d been on every level blameless, how he’d known very little about the whole mess before then. It doesn’t change the fact that he’d rushed from saving George’s life and reached the hospital just in time for Jackson to breathe his last. He’d made the only choice he could based on the shape the two men-- well, three men-- were in when he found them, he’d offered the best counsel he’d known to give the last time that he and Jackson spoke, before he’d walked into the lion’s den. At no point in that matter had he acted in a way which put those he cared for into _more_ danger than his actions would have spared them. If he’d taken Jackson with him and left George to the ambulance, he’d have lost Jackson en route to the morgue anyhow, and lost George to the cells upon his recovery, and then they all would have been lost. 

They had not discussed his brothers, not in any depth. He’s not sure when he might be ready to discuss Hubert, and how he had failed him. But she had touched on the idea, that in that matter too, he put too much upon his own shoulders and not enough upon those who rightly deserved the blame.

He’s not sure what to do with the knowledge, exactly. Be aware of it, is what she’d said. Speak to himself rationally when he notices himself falling into the pattern. Call on her if necessary. Maybe make notes when he realizes he’s being irrational, something he can refer to, point to. Maybe that will be helpful.

He still wishes there was some way of knowing whether he was especially abnormal without asking the wife of a respected colleague-- a respected professional and _friend_ in her own right-- whether or not there was something the matter with the way he reacts to things. Response to non-sexual stimulus, or however one might put it scientifically. 

Not that it was entirely fair to call his reaction sexual. Not… wholly un-sexual, not wholly sexual. A great emotional upheaval with a decidedly erotic bent, to what had formerly been a romantic but wholly un-sexual pet name, brought out in a moment of… he hardly knows. He hardly knows how it had happened. How he had gone from struggling to accept being cared for, to… achieving sexual fulfillment on the promise of some caretaking. Which is, he’s certain, _not_ normal, but that doesn’t mean it’s harmful. He hopes it’s not harmful. He’s not sure, but as he can’t possibly _ask_ her about it, he’s not going to _become_ sure. 

Not that he thinks he could have asked a man, either, about this. About some things, yes. But… not this. 

He doesn’t know _who_ he could ask about this. 

Perhaps just Jack? Couldn’t he say he’d enjoyed being _lamb_ in bed? They’ve done things with food which strain the bounds of normality. Jack had admitted to wanting those things, and those things had quickly become carnal, so couldn’t he say he had strange desires of his own which he was only beginning to understand? And then, what of the way he’d craved further touch even when his body had screamed at him for a little distance and a little time untouched? He’d wanted more, he’d wanted to be touched and touched-- and touched intimately-- until it was more pain than pleasure and even after. And if Jack had asked it of him, instead of bowing to his wants, how much more would he have endured? There’s no line he thinks he would draw. There is no piece of himself he thinks he could withhold.

But those conversations would have to wait. Planning out those conversations would have to wait. _Thinking_ about planning out those conversations would have to wait, for as long as he need play acting inspector.

It’s a busy day, though most of what comes in is inconsequential. A lot of sending men out to handle minor matters, a lot of sorting reports, signing off on what he can and organizing the rest for Inspector Brackenreid’s return. It’s not his favorite kind of work, but somehow organizing things in Brackenreid’s office in expectation of his return is different from trying to keep anything in his own life organized. 

When the office feels too oppressive, he can walk around the bullpen-- he also checks Murdoch’s office several times throughout the morning, though he never appears. 

When a real case comes in, he’s _aching_ to go and solve it himself. Instead, he calls George in, and hands it to him. George takes one look, then leaves it on the desk, eyes wide.

“Me, Sir?”

“Who else?”

“Well, in that we haven’t got Detective Murdoch in and I expect you want to stay here in case anything else happens, I can see your point, but this seems like a job for a detective.” George shrugs.

“Yes. George… _you’re_ \-- I mean I know, I know with everything that happened with you, but-- but you _should_ be a detective. You know enough to be one, you have the experience to be one. You’re all I have, but given the choice between you in a constable’s uniform, and some detective from another stationhouse whose work I don’t know, I would give this case to you. Merit, George. Merit.”

“Oh-- Sir, I…” He touches his hand to his heart, then reaches to take the file, when Llewellyn extends it to him again. “I won’t let you down, Sir.”

“I know you won’t.”

“Only do you think the inspector will be back tomorrow? So that I can give you whatever I have on the case and you can take it? Because I leave Toronto tomorrow, to continue on with the tour. I wasn’t even meant to be here today, until Henry told me everyone had gone missing on us again. I leave town fairly early in the morning.”

Llewellyn scratches at his jaw, nerves ramping up. “Tomorrow? I… I don’t know. I wasn’t informed as to when-- Tomorrow… Mm, well. Get what you can-- if anyone gives you any trouble about being a uniform, you’re collecting information for a detective, but-- I rely upon you. Whatever groundwork you can lay before you need to leave us again.”

He leans over the desk to be able to reach out and clap George on the shoulder.

“I’ll see what one day can get us.” George nods, and then he’s off, and…

And Llewellyn is stuck with the office, with the phone and the paperwork and the reports from other constables as they come and go. An entire day stretching ahead-- an entire _Monday_ , he won’t have the night with Jack.

Unless…

The keys are on his keyring, he could let himself in, he has permission to do so. 

No. He can’t. Maybe if they had discussed it beforehand. Maybe if he’d said ‘I need to come spend some time at your place’, but… he’s not ready to simply make himself free in Jack’s room. Not when it isn’t an emergency, and it’s _not_.

It’s not an emergency, but... 

He picks up the phone.

“Walker and Smythe, butchers. How m--”

“Jack. It’s me.”

“Llew? I was just about to flip the sign.”

“Go ahead and close up, I’ll wait.” He says. Hears the receiver set carefully down upon the counter and pictures Jack’s routine in his mind as he does wait. Imagines him flipping the sign, turning the lock, pulling the shades, the time it takes him. He’s still back before Llewellyn would have expected, must have jogged across the shop.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m, uh… They’ve just got me running things again. And… it’s not like when they were kidnapped-- the inspector, and Murdoch. It’s just that they’re both gone again, and-- they’re both gone again, and no one’s told me where? And I’m going to wear a rut in the floor of this office if I have to stay inside any longer.”

“The inspector’s gone and you don’t know where he is?”

“No one’s said. I asked, no one’s said. Just that he told the man on desk late last night that I would be acting as inspector today, and… until he gets back, which no one knows. But he… he _said_ , which means he can’t be _kidnapped_. And George is here--”

“ _George_ is there? Isn’t he on tour?”

“He’s finished his engagements here, he leaves tomorrow.”

“And no one knows where the inspector is?”

“So they say. If anyone knows, they aren’t telling _me_. Someone who was on shift last night might know more but until they come in there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“That’s so strange, I saw him yesterday.”

“What?” Llewellyn sits down hard and fumbles to find a pen, paper, he needs to take notes on whatever Jack has to say, just in case. “You saw him? I mean-- I saw Doctor Ogden, who I think is with Detective Murdoch who I’m _certain_ is--” He sucks in a sharp breath. “With the inspector, but when did you see him?”

“Yesterday afternoon. After we had to leave off our weekend. I ran into the Brackenreids by chance. He _apologized_ to me for treating me unfairly. He… _didn’t_ treat me unfairly, that’s the thing of it. I mean, he could have extended more trust to me, but I did break the law, I did lie to him, and I know how bad things looked for me, I didn’t hold that against him just because we were at odds, I only… I was angry at the time but I know what it looked like from his side, I didn’t hold a grudge. He apologized, though, for the whole thing. He said it wasn’t… fair, how he’d taken against me hard, for… that. I think she finally told him she hasn’t gone to someone else, and… I don’t know what else. To get him to come around like that, I don’t know what else. It was nice. But he seemed perfectly normal, except for the part where I think he doesn’t apologize often.”

“Mm. Curiouser and curiouser.”

“I take it Doctor Ogden was also normal.” Jack says, and it’s not a question.

“Yes, perfectly. I can only assume her husband was, at that time, the same. She didn’t indicate otherwise. She told me about plans she had for-- they have this _room_ in their house, Jack, it cooks things very fast. Not… well. You would… not like how it cooks meat. I don’t understand the science behind it, maybe it’s very interesting. I approve of how it cooks potatoes, but… not meat.”

“... I’m going to just… I’m going to set that whole idea aside, I don’t understand any of that. But they were normal yesterday, is what I’m taking here.”

“Yes. And at some point, the inspector must have come into the office, in response to a call or after something he’d forgotten, and then… then he leaves word for _me_ , but I’m given no explanation, nor how Murdoch is involved, let alone Doctor Ogden.”

“Yes! Yes-- he’d… He shook my hand, offered me his apologies for coming down so hard on me when he’s known me, there was some other talk. He’d said he needed something back at the station, she talked him into going back late so as not to disrupt their plans… so he would have been back in the office late in the evening I suppose, but it sounded perfectly routine to me to overhear them discuss it. There was no tension around it.”

“Mm. Yes, well… but according to Doctor Ogden, the detective had no such plans to return to the office, they were looking forward to a quiet evening at home. So what then?”

“The Inspector returns on a routine matter, sees a problem, contacts the detective… and perhaps they also have need of the doctor? The three of them go to settle some matter with as much discretion as they can manage. He leaves you in charge. Does that make sense?”

“More than most explanations. Thank you, Jack. I-- I needed someone to run this past, someone… well, you, really. I needed you.”

“Oh… Llewellyn. I’m glad I could be helpful. Do you want to come over for lunch? I can let you in the back.”

“I don’t think I can get away so long today, I’m… I’ll go and get lunch closer to the station. The walk will help clear my head, and I’ll have some food on my stomach. And then I’ll… deal with this.”

“I know you will.” Jack’s tone is warm. Proud? It’s hard sometimes to know, but maybe. He likes the thought. “That’s my temporarily important man. Later this week, could we get a night together? Wednesday?”

“Wednesday. Maybe… I could bring by another bordeaux?”

“Oh, I’d like that. How do you feel about something… _Provençal_?”

“Jack…” He groans. “Tell me more.”

“Just thinking about trying something a little different. I was going to make a beef stew Tuesday that would last me a couple of nights, but I wanted to play around with the herbs. I’d be able to heat up the leftover on Wednesday, but I wouldn’t be doing much actual cooking-- I could focus on _you_. And we wouldn’t have much wait.”

“Sounds _perfect_. I hope by then I’ll have some answers, or at least… that everyone will be back. Well, George won’t be back, he’s leaving in the morning… but the others. Maybe. And then I can take George’s case.”

“Then I’ll see you on Wednesday. And you can tell me all about it. Llew…” A breath, a sigh, he tries to imagine how they would sound without the distortion of the telephone line. “You know.”

“I know. And… you know. You know.”

“I know. Take care-- don’t let it make you too crazy. I’m proud of you, temporarily important man.”

“And you. I mean, take care. And… I’m always the same amount of proud, of you. But-- well. Just. I’ll see you Wednesday night.”

“Goodbye ‘til then.”

“Goodbye.”

They hang up, and the brisk walk down to the nearest street vendor is at least a bit of fresh air and movement. Hand pies, not the cart he’s used to seeing on the same corner most days-- but he thinks Jack would be happier about it, it’s more balanced. He walks the rest of the way around the block while he eats, before returning to the office. Mercifully, no messages waiting for him which would have been urgent, only one which he can deal with at his leisure-- though he may as well deal with it now. He would have felt bad, if it had been a message from George he’d missed.

There’s not quite enough to _do_. He is unaccustomed to the inactivity of inspector-hood. He doesn’t yet know what to do with himself when there isn’t a task in front of him.

Higgins finds him leaning his left shoulder hard into the side of a filing cabinet, needing the pressure to relieve some of the tension in him.

“Sir-- do you need help shifting the cabinet over? File dropped behind?”

“Hm? No-- it’s not for the cabinet, it’s for me.”

“Shoulder out of its socket? I can probably help with that.”

“Mm, no, it’s… not out of its socket.” He says, hates the way his voice begins to tilt upwards, uncertain, embarrassed at being caught out somehow. Caught at what he doesn’t know how to say, just that the pressure helps, and that it seems to be one of those things which no one else ever feels, the way that he does. Then again, this is Higgins, mustn’t he have a higher tolerance for the strange? “I just… like to lean on it sometimes. Helps me think.”

“All right. Well, I just got back from the Milton call.”

“Just _now_?” His brow furrows and he pushes himself upright to be able to look at Higgins properly, holding out a hand and gesturing for him. “Complications? What have we got?”

“Not complications, Sir, just… tedium.” He sighs. “There’s not much to write up, but I’ll have it on your desk in two shakes. Just… in case you were wondering where that was.”

“I don’t have a desk. Oh-- the inspector’s desk. Yes, thank you, good man.” He nods, and returns his shoulder to its spot against the cabinet, getting some of the pressure along his upper arm. 

It helps him deal with the stress of the day, though it’s not as good as being out and about in the fresh air.

Monday night brings no real insight. He stays late in hopes of news and then goes out to dinner, nothing fancy. No company. He used to eat alone, and not feel anything lacking… now he thinks about Jack, who must be at his mother’s now. He’s not ready to meet her, he’s not sure when he would be ready to orchestrate a chance meeting. 

Most weeks, Jack has dinner with her, they go over their weeks at leisure. He can only guess at what it would be like, to be a guest at one of those dinners. To sit at the table Jack grew up eating at, to meet the woman who he holds in such esteem and to… to be considered as significant, that still scares him. There’s so much for her to disapprove of. He could deal with not being liked, but the idea of Jack suffering the consequences of his having done wrong… or his being wrong, or… his being not what she would want of him. What she would want for her son.

He tries not to dwell on the thought of what it would be, to be free to join them. He swings back by the stationhouse after dinner to see if there’s any news about the inspector, about Murdoch and Doctor Ogden. There isn’t… 

It’s late, he bicycles home, he sleeps… 

Tuesday is easier than Monday had been. He supposes he understands the job now. He takes George’s notes-- the facts and his own inferences, everything he’d worked out so far. He thinks, on Tuesday, that he can justify going out and wrapping it, given how much work George had already put in, how little there is left to do. After all, Inspector Brackenreid isn’t behind the desk at all hours, he goes out on cases which require him. Occasionally on cases which don’t, just when the urge to stretch the legs rises, as it has been rising in him since he arrived at work on Monday morning. He goes out. He closes George’s case.

George’s case, still, even as he types up his report. He’d had depressingly little to do… but he’d gotten out for a bit, and nothing had gone wrong in his absence.

Nothing goes wrong throughout the rest of Tuesday, either. Still, he’s grateful to come into Brackenreid’s office Wednesday morning to find Brackenreid in it.

“Haven’t learned to knock, I see.”

“Sir!”

“Looks like you’ve run a tight ship in my absence. Anything I should know?”

“It should all be in the reports on your desk, Sir. George was good enough to-- come in, and… he solved most of one for us before he had to be on his way. The rest has been routine enough. Ah… if you don’t mind my asking…?”

“I don’t. But I think the government would.”

“Oh.” Llewellyn blinks. 

“We’re not at liberty to say.” He adds.

“Detective Murdoch is back as well? And-- Doctor Ogden? Safe?”

“That’s right. Good work, Watts. You know… you’d have my support, if you ever changed your mind about…”

“I appreciate that, Inspector, but I’m… realistic, about my chances. You of all people should know I am not politic. I am not likely to become moreso. Not… enough, for the position. There are things about me which…”

“Yes, I know. But… the world is changing. And you’re still a young man. Show enough promise, and… maybe, by the time you’re ready to take over, it’ll be ready.”

He comes around the desk, puts his hand on Llewellyn’s shoulder, heavy and warm and comfort personified, and he just wishes… he just wishes they were talking about the same thing. That he could tell the whole truth and hear the same words. They’d both know it wouldn’t be true… that the world wouldn’t be ready in ten years, in twenty. But it would be sweet to hear it. To think at least between the two of them, it wouldn’t matter.

But he knows better. 

He’d seen Glen lose everything, he knows…

“I would rather not put myself through what I know I’d get, on the off chance that maybe someone will be ready.” He swallows, shaking hands jammed into his pockets. “I have lived my whole life in rooms full of people who have had _ugly_ things to say about me. They just didn’t know it was about me.”

“... I understand.” He sighs, and pats Llewellyn’s shoulder one more time. “I’m just sorry.”

“You don’t need to be. Life is what it is.”

“Not for you. For the city. She’ll be short a damn fine inspector if you won’t go for the job. Go on, then… back to work. Crime doesn’t wait so we can stand around and chit-chat.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He settles himself in at George’s unoccupied desk, reaching both arms out and tapping two of the keys on the typewriter currently pushed towards the back of the desk, not firmly enough for them to fully depress, sinking down to watch the slight twitch of the arms from a ways back, the inner working mechanisms reacting and not quite making contact with the ribbon. He’s hard at work doing just that when Murdoch comes up to him.

“Detective Watts.”

“Detective.” He looks up, though he stays down where he is. “Am I needed for something?”

“No, not that I know of. I was merely wondering… why are you at George’s desk?”

“He’s not here.”

“Yes. I am aware. He’s on his book tour.”

“So his desk is not in use?” He gives each of the two keys one tap solid enough to produce a satisfying click.

“That’s true, and if you were working a case with Henry, I would understand your taking up temporary residence here. But as Henry is on routine patrol right now and not assigned to any case, and as you seem to also not be assigned to any case… why are you not at your own desk?”

“I--” He sits up somewhat straighter, brow furrowing, then he sits up the rest of the way and peers around the bullpen. “My own desk?”

“Yes. The desk at which you spend… most days?”

He whirls around. 

“The desk most frequently unoccupied, yes. I was told I might make use of it once, two years ago?” He frowns. He thinks two, but time is illusory, a fickle mistress. It might have been one and it might have been three. It had been some time after his transfer had gone through, but how much time he can’t be sure. “It must have lost its owner, and never been assigned a new one.”

“Actually, Detective Watts, it… it _has_ been assigned an owner. _You_.”

“Oh.”

They gave him a desk. He’d said he didn’t need a desk but they had given him one anyway. At stationhouse one, when he’d said he didn’t need a desk, that had been that. There was an old one he could work at, in a back corner. Piles of old unsorted papers to move aside or work around, things people would set there. It wobbled, after its years of rough treatment. It… 

They never did like him much, at stationhouse one.

Do they… like him, here?

He whips back to look up at Murdoch, lips pursed, eyes wide. “My desk?”

“Yes.”

“I was told I could make use of it. I-- mine? And… with drawers? I mean-- if I put things in the drawers, they would be left alone?”

“I believe the bottom right drawer will lock, if you wish it to.” Murdoch nods, gesturing towards it again. 

He shoots to his feet, crosses the bullpen to his desk-- _his_! And with a chair, he has his own chair, he drops down into his own chair at his own desk and struggles to take it all in. He thought he didn’t want one… he’d thought he wouldn’t care to be given one. He hadn’t imagined he would be… touched. But he must have proven himself a valuable member of the team, they assigned this desk to him even though he’d been perfectly capable of working without one. He turns to find Murdoch has come with him, is standing stiffly by-- but, his normal stiff.

“What did I do?” He asks.

“I beg your pardon?” Murdoch tilts his head to the side.

“When did they give me a desk?”

“I assume as soon as one opened up for you, on your transfer. I’m not certain.”

“Not because of something I did? To prove I was an asset to the team?”

“Because of your transfer, I would imagine. Watts… I don’t think anyone would have expected you to _earn_ a desk in your workplace. But… if they _had_ , you… you made detective at a very young age, and your record since that promotion has been exemplary on the whole. It would be an objective fact to state that you are an asset to this stationhouse.”

He rises again, clasping Murdoch’s shoulder, torn on whether he could potentially hug him. He feels like he should, except he’s fairly certain it would be unwelcome. 

“Thank you.”

“As I’ve said, it’s an objective fact.” He spreads his hands.

“Yes. But-- I mean… I really don’t care about opinion. I-- appreciate objective fact. I appreciate that you’ve recognized that… that you’ve recognized that as objective fact.”

“Yes, well.” He has not lowered his hands. So… they are not going to hug. Well, that’s all right. Llewellyn releases Murdoch’s shoulder, giving him his space back. “There you have it. Welcome to your desk.”

All of the papers he’s left there are as he’d left them… why had he never noticed? Why had he simply assumed that other people used this desk when he was away? That there was another shift, that the desk’s other owner was conscientious, that the things he couldn’t pack up and take with him were left untouched?

“I hope not to spend too much time here, of course-- but… I am very glad to have this space."

He pulls open a couple of his drawers, and begins moving his stacks of paper and the notes from his pockets into the lower left drawer. The key for the lower right is in the central drawer, he has a key. He has a place where it would be safe, to keep personal effects. A photograph.

“Ah-- Detective. Why don’t I help you organize your files?” Murdoch offers, wincing and staring into the mass of papers dumped into the lefthand drawer.

This time, he hugs him.

The filing system Murdoch implements… well, he’ll use it for now, until it no longer works for him. But he’s starting out with things sorted, that’s something.

He’s starting out with things sorted, because a friend offered to help him sort them.

“Please give your wife my regards.” He says, before Murdoch can go, the desk fully organized. “And-- I’ll… it may not be soon, but I-- maybe, for dinner, I could find a date. Even if it’s only me who comes?”

“She would like that. She would like that just as much whether or not you bring a lady friend. Or-- any other friend. I’ll let her know you’re examining your calendar, and I’m sure she’ll be pleased.”

That evening, he arrives home to Jack’s, and he pulls him close the moment they’re behind closed doors.

“I promise I’ll get you a photograph for your desk drawer, but you’ve got to give me one for mine.”

“You’ve got a desk now?” Jack leans into him.

“I’ve got a desk now. I’ve-- I’m told it’s been mine for the asking. A nice desk. One of the drawers locks.”

“Come and take your pick, then.” He offers, tugging at Llewellyn to follow. And follow he does, easily, lets Jack steer him into a chair and hand him a photo album in exchange for the wine. “If it’s one of me alone, you can take it. I only care about the ones with others in them.”

“Dinner smells good.” He catches Jack’s hand, to press a kiss to it. 

“I’m just going to get it finished up. Get the wine open. You take your time… my temporarily important man.” And when he takes his hand back, it’s to scratch gently through the stubble at Llewellyn’s jaw.

“Am I a cat now?”

“Maybe you are. I like cats. No, it’s-- it’s what you do when you’ve been anxious and you’re trying to breathe.” He says. “You always do it when you’re dealing with stress.”

He looks up at Jack, dumbstruck.

“Still?” Jack’s thumb sweeps up at his cheek, before the gentle scratching resumes. “I see you, beloved.”

“I don’t always notice _myself_.”

“You do it when you’re stressed-- or when you’re thinking, sometimes.”

“Well… it does feel good.” Llewellyn sighs, leaning into the touch. “I think it feels better when you’re the one doing it.”

“I’ve got to go and finish dinner up.” He bends down to kiss Llewellyn’s forehead. “Pick out a photograph, and then tell me about how work’s been going.”

“Mm. I’m done being temporarily important! Everything about what’s happened while I have been is… very hush-hush. I mean, where they’ve been, while I’ve been.” He reaches up to scratch his chin as he loses Jack’s hand, twisting around in his chair to watch him a moment. There are two pots on the stove, and once the wine is breathing and set aside, Jack gives one a stir and then pours from a jar of dried egg noodles into the other.

“Mysterious. Well… as long as things are going back to normal now, I suppose.”

“It’s been… quite a couple of days.” He takes a deep breath, before returning his attention to the photograph album. He finds the picture he wants quickly-- one of Jack alone, a portrait. Neatly dressed, his hair slicked back as per usual, his smile… his smile familiar, small and tight around the mouth but his eyes sparkling. “Found one.”

Jack wanders back over, as he pulls it carefully free, looking over his shoulder.

“All yours, and gladly.” He takes Llewellyn’s hat and kisses the top of his head. “That’s for your desk drawer?”

“The one that locks. Once I have a frame for it. I-- I’ll get a frame for it.”

“And you’ll bring me one?”

“I’m afraid it won’t be very racy.”

“That’s probably for the best.” Jack laughs, drifting back to the stove. “I don’t need the distraction.”

“I’ll get one taken.” He sets the album down on Jack’s end table, the photograph placed carefully on top, and he goes to get his coat and jacket hanging up, before he moves to stand behind Jack at the stove, hands on his waist. “I’ll get it to you soon as I can. Mm… now, I was thinking tonight… maybe a back rub after supper, and then… we’ll see where the night takes us?”

“I have a few ideas as to where it might.” Jack leans back into him with a sigh. “But yes, let’s start with a round of massages, I think we’ve earned it. I think we’ve earned ourselves a lot of good things.”


	27. I'm Lost In Admiration, Could I Need You This Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys manage to put some words around some of what they've felt-- though their relationship isn't all one way.

As soon as he has the photograph, he goes to the shop, where Jack has taken advantage of the warmth of the early afternoon and has set up outside to get some work done-- much like the first time they had met. And much like the first time they had met, he has something roasted that he’s chopping up fine-- chicken, this time?-- the aroma wafting a little ways. He supposes it draws customers-- at least, it would draw him. Which is perhaps not a very objective assessment, as it’s not only the aroma of roast chicken that draws him. He’d have to rate the presence of food, however delicious it might look and smell, as a second, after the man himself. Shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, hands sure, expression serene, hair gleaming in the sunlight… 

“Detective, good afternoon.” He greets, setting aside his cleaver-- and it is impossible to separate out the publicly palatable and polite greeting from the way that he flirts sometimes, no matter how subdued any note of teasing. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Ah, good afternoon, Mister Walker.” He sidles closer, until he’s near enough to drop his voice. “I have something I’d like to give you, when you get the chance.”

“Oh, not helpful-- I can think of a _few_ things I’d like you to give me, that you might like to give. Narrow it down for me?” Jack whispers back, his smile teasing.

“ _Control_ yourself.” Llewellyn says, though he can’t keep the smile off of his own face. The thrill of being flirted with out in the open, even if it’s in whispers, even if no one sees. “I got that photograph taken, a current one.”

“You’ll have to slip it to me later.” His smile goes soft. Rather than picking the cleaver back up, he takes a long, thin blade, and one of the already removed legs, folding it in one hand and slipping the point of the blade down into the joint, before cleanly separating thigh from drumstick. “Have you eaten?”

“I _could_ eat.”

“Well why don’t you tell me how this is?” He holds the drumstick out, and Llewellyn doesn’t even _think_ before leaning in and taking a bite, not until he’s already done it and he sees the look on Jack’s face, carefully blank except for the rise of his eyebrows, the tightness around the neutral line of his mouth. 

He pulls back with an apologetic hum, with a quick glance around. No one seems to be staring, no one seems to have seen, but he can’t relax.

“I need to control myself?” Jack whispers-- no anger to the reprimand in it, though Llewellyn thinks he would deserve it. “I need to control _you_ , if anything.”

_Oh_.

Well that doesn’t help.

“Really, I think the problem is, I’m already so well-trained.” He says, face hot. The twist of feeling pulling his insides in odd directions only ratchets further at the way Jack’s free hand grips the edge of his block, the flare of nostrils and the way he closes his eyes and takes a breath. 

“Oh, God.” He whines. “Don’t _say_ that.”

“Noted. Yes. That was… I don’t know what that was. That was… something.”

“ _You’re_ something.” Jack still doesn’t look at him, tone somewhere between reprimand and praise now, some curious mix of both that _really_ doesn’t help.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t-- No one saw. I think no one saw.”

“Take this.” He waves the drumstick. “Go. Come back later. Yeah?”

“Yes. Good. Jack-- it’s good.” He offers, and he takes the drumstick as carefully as he can, none of the lingering brush of hands they’ve so often orchestrated. 

He gives himself a longer late lunch than he might otherwise have taken, goes back to his boarding house instead of straight back to work. Lies down on his unmade bed and lets his mind return to what had just happened. Lets himself feel the things he’d tried not to feel out on the street, the things that the moment of fear and shame at his carelessness had drowned out. 

_I need to control_ you. It had sparked something of that same feeling, the way he’d felt when Jack had called him _lamb_ , not before or after making love, as it usually came, but at the height of it, how that had changed the endearment, charged it. Tied to the feeling of needing more of him, tied to the feeling of being fed by him and being looked at by him. Tied to all these things that weren’t exactly sex and yet… Things which were more sex than sex. The feeling of being taken care of, with a match set under it. The feeling when Jack went from stroking gently through his hair to something approaching a tug, the feeling of being _granted_ him. There were other feelings which were not so sexual, but which he cannot divorce from this one-- the feeling of being fussed over. The feeling of being neatened or bathed or _shaved_ , which had not been arousing but which had been _something_. The feeling of laying his head on Jack’s knee, of sitting at his feet and how there are times when it’s the only thing that feels _right_. 

He’d think something was very wrong with him, except Jack seems to want all the same things, and he can’t for a moment think there’s anything wrong with the ways Jack takes care of him.

He undoes his trousers, draws himself out-- finds himself already hard, harder than he’d expected without even conjuring a particular fantasy. His neighbors are at work, it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t keep his voice down. He normally does, he’s accustomed to masturbating with the thinnest veneer of privacy in place-- for all that he finds it hard to keep his voice down with Jack, he’s silent when he’s alone. This time, he tries to allow himself not to be. 

He doesn’t think about Jack touching him-- he thinks about Jack _watching_ him. He thinks about the way he’d sounded, asking him if he was close-- if he could finish _for him_. How he’d called him his _sweet dear lamb_ , and how pleasure had made his voice when he’d said it. 

He fumbles the handkerchief out of his pocket when he’s close enough, and it’s Jack’s handkerchief, the one he’d given him, clean white with the dark green monogram in one corner, and worn soft, and he releases into it with a groan. 

He washes it out as he cleans himself up, hangs it up over his mirror to dry. Finds one of his own to use for the rest of the day and tries not to feel shame, over the decadence of going home in the middle of the day to pleasure himself. If he hadn’t, he thinks he’d be useless and on-edge all the rest of the day. 

Anyway, there’s nothing for him to do, the rest of the day. It doesn’t matter if he’d taken the extra time. All he’s doing with his afternoon is waiting to be able to go and walk Jack home. 

He wishes he could take him flowers, but he can’t show up at the shop with him, can’t escort him home with bouquet in hand… He waits outside, for Jack to emerge bundled up against the falling evening, and he hunches in on himself further when Jack opens the door and their eyes meet.

“Hi.” He greets, nervous. Watches the way Jack looks him over, the difficult-to-read flickering of expressions to cross his face as he contemplates Llewellyn, as his eyes linger at his chin, his shoulder, his hands shoved into his coat pockets, before their eyes meet again.

“So you _do_ own a scarf.”

“Jack?”

“Llewellyn. How-- how are you?” He turns away to get the shop locked up. Busies himself with it.

“I don’t know. How are you?”

“All right. Tired.”

“Oh. Can-- can I walk you?”

The smile he turns back to him with is achingly soft, he touches Llewellyn’s arm just for a second. “I hope you will. I hope you’ll come up.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do. Llew-- Earlier was… _something_. I don’t claim to understand it in its entirety.’

“It’s the second time I’ve been careless with your safety. I don’t know how I could live with myself if I--”

“It _happens_. Llewellyn, it happens. And you weren’t careless with my safety-- you didn’t weigh my safety against a passing whim and consider it unimportant. I don’t believe that a moment. What you said… You had a point. The way we are at home and the way we are with friends is different from the way we have to be out in the world, and you’ve had, what, three months to learn to live a double life at the level I’ve been living it for years? I’ve done nothing but encourage you to… to be one way in private life, I cannot put all the blame on your shoulders for a slip. This isn’t a question of blame, it’s a question of… practice. You just need more practice, being out with me and being careful.”

“Discretion is so important to you.”

“And to you! I don’t for a moment imagine that it isn’t.” Another brief touch to his arm steers him to start walking, and he falls in step, switching to Jack’s other side as they cross the street. 

They fall silent as they pass people heading the other way-- Llewellyn steps down off the pavement to allow them the room to get by, accepts Jack taking his arm in order to tug him back up out of the gutter once they have the way to themselves. 

“No one saw. And you will be careful. But no one is perfect, there are always times we have to rely on how little people take notice of, and how much can be laughed off as meaningless. And you’ll learn to do that. You’ll learn to pretend that a touch or a look doesn’t mean what it does… you’ll learn to be the way other men are without even thinking about it, to… to draw comfort in a secret. It’s not a perfect life but it can be a good one.”

“If you were ever hurt because of me--”

“Then you can rest assured that is a risk I have taken into account. I took it into account three months ago. Every bad end I could come to for living my life, I have thought about. More often than I’d like to. The past three months have been worth anything the world can throw at me for--”

He falls silent fast, spotting a couple several feet ahead. Again they shift in anticipation of having to pass the pair. Again, Llewellyn steps down from the pavement. Again, Jack offers him a hand back up, squeezes his arm too briefly. He expects the sentiment to go unfinished, thinks perhaps he knows the rest, but when they have a good stretch of pavement to themselves again, Jack picks up where he left off.

“For being a man in love.” He says, and he dares a glance over, they both do. Llewellyn doesn’t know what to make of his face in the moment. It’s not one of his usual expressions, soft or serious, but it’s not a look he’s never seen before, either. Jack had looked at him before like this. Before they had been lovers… he had looked at him, once or twice, with the same sense of enormous _determination_ , the same resolute readiness. The same open trust. 

The same sense of come-what-may. It was how he had faced him before they had agreed to trust each other for the first time. And since then, once or twice. It was how he looked before taking a leap of faith-- faith which he chose to place in Llewellyn.

He can only nod, can only knock his elbow gently into Jack’s.

“I don’t think I can stay, tonight. I-- after earlier, I just… I appreciate what you’ve said, but the guilt is something I need a little time, to grapple with. I need to… I have some work to do. This is… something I’ve spoken about, with Doctor Ogden.”

“Is it something you need to do alone?”

“It won’t make me good company. And… I’ll be anxious. I don’t want to spoil more time together. I’ll come in a moment, and… then perhaps another night, to stay?”

“Another night, to stay.” Jack nods. “I hope… I hope you find the peace you need. I hope you understand I’m not angry with you-- I wouldn’t call things off over a mistake.”

“It could have been a dangerous one.”

“I know.” Jack says-- smiles, just slightly, as he tilts his head back to look at the evening sky. “But life’s dangerous, you know that. I was never a man who dared, much. I’ve been brave since knowing you. I want to keep being brave. You make it easy to be. Knowing I’ve got my white knight by my side.”

“Am I still that?”

“Of course you are.”

“Even if I put you at risk?” He scratches at the back of his neck. 

“No more than I do you… and aren’t I still-- aren’t I still, to you?”

“You’re--” He starts, stops. An open door up ahead. They sidestep a shopkeeper going home for the night. “Everything.”

“We’ll be all right, then. I-- I don’t want to give up the things we have at home just because it makes the world harder. My _life_ would be harder, without them. We just… adjust. We learn to do better. Both of us. I… I learn where the lines are, too. How not to make you careless when it isn’t safe.”

Llewellyn nods slowly, digesting that. It isn’t his fault if he’s come to be relaxed in Jack’s company, and it isn’t a bad thing… they just both need to know how not to pull each other into something… inescapable.

He thinks about that tug he gets in him sometimes, the thoughts he’d chased and strung together in his room. The ways it’s so easy to fall into… something. Something he has no name for. And yet… every time he’s made himself helpless before Jack alone, hasn’t he felt all the more in command of himself afterwards? Hasn’t he faced days, days of tremendous pressure, on the strength of Jack’s fussing over him? Sometimes even a word of confidence, and he’s handled things which had seemed beyond him. He would be a worse version of himself without whatever this thing is. He’s ready to believe that now.

He lets Jack usher him in-- lets Jack take his hat and his coat, so that careful fingers can play through his hair, so that he can be tugged down and kissed.

“Ohh, do that harder…” He groans. 

“... Harder?” Jack pulls back, question in his eyes. “Like…?”

He strokes through more firmly, the way he does sometimes, when things are turning carnal. 

“Yes…”

“Did you want to?”

“I-- I don’t know.” He admits. “I-- it just feels good. Not only that. I… I sometimes need to be under you. And it-- it isn’t about that. I need… things. Not-- sexually. I just mean that I don’t feel right sometimes. In my body. But I feel right when you’re in my lap, when you lie on top of me, when you pull me after you and pull on my hair. I feel better, sometimes, when you’re just… when you hold me tighter, when your weight is on me.”

“Just… like this?” Jack holds him, hard, his arms around him. Firm muscle, unyielding, all the strength his work has built in him. And Llewellyn… _melts_.

“Just like that.” He sighs, clinging on, nuzzling in. “I just need to be _pressed_ sometimes. I don’t know why. It makes it easier to be.”

“I can do that for you.” He squeezes tight, and then loosens up, rubbing his back, firm. Gently thumping him after as he continues to relax. “Better?”

“Oof, _much_.” He groans.

“And… it helps you breathe?” He brings a hand to Llewellyn’s jaw, urges him to stand up straight and scratches gently at him, other hand kneading at his shoulder.

“Yes…”

“All right.”

“And it’s… not like… it’s not like the things I feel, sometimes.” He pushes in closer, needing more, needing to be able to get through what he thinks he ought to say. Jack bends to him, holding him tight again, steering him back two steps so that he can press him up against the door, so that he can lean his weight up against him there. “It’s not like the things I feel, sometimes, when we… when things _are_ carnal. Well, when you tug at my hair, I don’t think I can help that now, but… It’s different from the-- the _other_ ways you help me breathe. Be.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t… I don’t know. What happened today, and how it-- But… is it a bad thing? When you take care of me, I feel… capable, of things that used to frighten me. First and foremost, being cared for. But… so much. I’m stronger when I’m alone if I’ve been with you and you’ve… When you do any of those things. When you feed me, when you love me, when you… when I-- _submit_ to you?”

“Maybe… I wasn’t so off, when I called it that.” Jack nods. 

“It feels like a good thing. I worried at first. Not understanding it, and being… all in all, rather defenseless against it. And… because it did lead me to make mistakes. I worried. But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I think… Things I couldn’t do before, things I believed I couldn’t do, I’ve _done_ them. Things I believed I couldn’t have, I _have_ them. If I make you braver by being there to protect you, you make me stronger by being here to care for me. And some of it is sex and some of it isn’t, and I don’t always know, but I-- Does any of that make sense?”

“I think so. We’ll… we’ll figure it out. And… I’ll be more careful, not to… cut past your defenses, in public. If what you feel is anything like what I do, when we… _indulge_ , in those things, then… I can’t blame you, for reacting without thinking. It’s hard enough to resist you when we’re being careful.” He cups Llewellyn’s cheek. “All I ever want to do is love you. Sometimes it will be like that, sometimes it won’t. I’ll never put you in a box just because of something you enjoy some of the time-- and I’ll never assume, that you wanting one thing means you also want another. I want the whole you. When you’re my lamb, when you’re my white knight, and everything in between.”

Llewellyn leaves the very cozy spot he’s found himself in, so that he can get the photograph from his coat pocket, offering it.

“For your drawer.”

“Oh… _handsome_ man.” Jack grins, slipping an arm back around him and leaning up for a kiss. “I’ll be looking at this whenever I have a slow moment to myself.”

“I have fewer moments to myself, but… I like having your picture. And… I can unlock the drawer and peek in at it, if I can’t take it out.”

Jack kisses him again, slow and thorough, before they part for the night. Sends him off with a whispered ‘I love you’ that makes the walk home easy, that makes stopping into a little place to eat dinner alone feel lighter. That has him in high spirits going into work.

He’s ready to solve a _problem_. He’s ready to solve the _world’s_ problems. Jack understands him, the complicated weird parts-- he understands him as well as he understands himself, at least, which might not be very, yet, but… but he has asked for complicated and weird things and been given them freely. No-- Jack has offered some of those things without his asking. It was Jack who noticed one of the little tics he’d developed to calm himself and tried to offer that. It was Jack who saw what he couldn’t ask for, in bed, and gave it, and now he has been able to ask for things and Jack hasn’t run the other way. 

He wants to solve the world’s problems. A major crime, a disaster in need of averting… Instead, Murdoch saddles him with the missing pig. 

It’s not the most mentally engaging problem, but it gets him out and about, and… well, maybe it’s an excuse. An excuse to stop by the shop. To work on talking to Jack, out in the world, and keeping his head. He mostly does, and Jack mostly does, or they do well enough. 

And he supposes it counts for something that they wind up with the pig, though he’s just as happy to see it go again. And-- he supposes-- just as happy to have had a small hand in something a little more consequential.

“Detective Watts?” Jack sidles closer, with the dust settled, everything about him guarded. 

Given the fact that Inspector Brackenreid is standing right between them, the guardedness is understandable.

“Mister Walker. Is… there a problem I can assist you with?”

“No-- not a problem, no. I just wanted to let you know… That is, if you needed a witness statement from me, at any time, I-- Well.” And his face is pink, only just, though he doesn’t glance away. He holds Llewellyn’s gaze, steady, and he folds his hands in front of his middle but he doesn’t fidget with them. “You know where to find me.”

“Ah. Yes. Well, it… seems to be an open and shut case of _some_ variety, but-- it never hurts to be thorough.” He nods. “Perhaps after I handle business down at the station I can come by and take your statement.”

“No need, Watts. I’m sure I can take the man’s statement while we wrap up business here. Still got to get that bloody mutton for Margaret’s… party. You go on and take care of that collar.”

“I can hardly take credit, but I can certainly see the man is processed and charged properly.” He says, attempting to communicate his apology to Jack without alerting the inspector.

“You still acted quickly.” Jack says-- this time he does glance away, and his smile is… something. “It was an admirable job.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you. I-- I had better…” He waves a hand. “I had better take care of… things. I’ll see you around, then, Mister Walker.”

Llewellyn can only assume Jack knows he means tonight, rather than at the weekend’s book club meeting.

“Detective.” He nods. 

At the station, Doctor Ogden, Miss Cherry, and Miss Newsome get him caught up on the man he’d helped apprehend. 

“Your case sounds so much more interesting than mine was.”

“It was rather exciting.” Doctor Ogden laughs. “Did we lose you your quarry while you were apprehending ours?”

“All for the greater good, I think.”

After they go, he’s held up dealing with stationhouse three, and the question of jurisdiction, and he’s happy to agree, but it’s tedious work to iron it out even without a fight, and it’s longer than he’d like before he’s free to go, to rush to Jack’s.

He opens the door, hair damp from his shower.

“I’m not late, I take it?”

Jack grabs the front of his coat and pulls him in. “No, I got in late myself. You’re just in time.”

Llewellyn pushes the door shut, only to find his arms very full of one Jack Walker, and his lips very occupied. 

“What’s this for?”

“ _You_.” Jack sighs, going a bit jelly-like in his arms. 

Now that’s really something. He’s far more used to the reverse. Not that they haven’t both been reduced to a very contented jelly in bed, but this… 

“Yes, I can see that.”

“You were just… very quick to action.”

“Oh.”

“Is it such a surprise?” He takes Llewellyn’s hat, dropping it onto his own head and running his fingers through his hair. “You saved me once… seeing you in action was bound to have an effect on me.”

Llewellyn grins, getting a firm hold on him, one arm around his shoulders and the other hand on his backside. “Well… I think, under the circumstances… perhaps supper can wait?”

“ _Oh_ , Detective… what do you suggest?”

He kisses Jack, deep, slow, pulling him in even closer. He doesn’t think he could carry him from the front door to the bed, as much as he’d like to… but then, it’s never unpleasant to drag each other there. And he thinks the kiss is enough to get his suggestion across. Judging by the dizzy way Jack looks up at him when they do part, it is.


	28. Don't Laugh, I Think You're Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is lovely, and then everything isn't. 
> 
> And then it's worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue from 'Things Left Behind' and 'The Future Is Unwritten'. Title of this chapter from the lyrics of The Magnetic Fields' 'Love in the Shadows'.
> 
> While some of the chapters line up alongside a single episode, it didn't really make sense to me to split the two-parter that way-- especially as the next chapter will have a LOT of the epilogue we didn't get. 
> 
> Anyway this chapter is LONG and this chapter is ANGST.

“I don’t think I can wait to see you again.” Jack mumbles the words against his lips, pressing him to the door before he can leave.

Book club had been… good. Book club had been good. He barely remembers who had said what after dinner, because this time when he’d taken his customary seat at Jack’s feet, it had been… different. Significant, in ways he hadn’t understood before. He’d felt drunk on it. Antony had passed around a box of chocolates in the parlor and he and Abram had fed them to each other as a matter of course, and so it hadn’t seemed as if it would be too unusual, to let Jack do the same for him, only…

Only he’d been kneeling there at his feet before the fire with one hand in his hair and the weight of his gaze, and Jack had asked him if he wanted one-- as if he had to ask-- and had called him lamb, no different than he’d done at other times. Everyone’s seen Jack call him that before. Just as Abram and Antony have sweet names for each other, and Reed has sweet names for everyone when he’s in the mood to, and once in a while Aldous does as well, though ‘dear’ seems reserved for Glen alone. But it had been different, with Jack sliding the chocolate past his lips… he’d felt…

It hadn’t been sexual arousal, mercifully, not more than the same slight twinge of interest that might pass between them at any given moment, and be ignored until the appropriate time. But it had left him feeling naked and needy, after. It had been strong. He’s not sure if he can continue to sit at Jack’s feet at book club anymore, if it’s going to be like that. Intoxicating as it may have been to be so openly his in such a way, it’s… private. To sink into that place, now that he better understands it-- even when they remain fully dressed, even when nothing carnal is exchanged, it feels too like making love in public to let it happen where the others will see. Exciting, yes, but it doesn’t leave him feeling good afterwards. 

Well, Jack had left him feeling good afterwards, but it had been a bumpy and confusing night for his emotions, he’d barely been able to sort himself out for the cab driver. And then he’d needed fussing over to put him right again, when they got to Jack’s place. And now, in the morning, it’s so easy to cling to each other, but they’d had to shift book club from Saturday evening to Sunday, and they have work…

“You’ll have to wait.” He groans, cradling Jack’s face in both hands a moment before easing them apart. “You have customers. And I, no doubt, have… something. At the very least, I am beholden to the city, whether or not I am actively needed, to go in and await duty’s call.”

“Meet me tonight, then.”

“Your mother--”

“ _Late_ tonight.”

“Another night together… Believe me, I want to.”

“If you’re worried about being caught, we won’t come back together. We’ll go out. Just… we’ll catch up. I-- Things got… intense, last night. I’d like to catch up tonight. I’d like to know that after a full day out in the world, you haven’t formed any regrets. I mean, we won’t be able to say much, but you’d still be able to tell me you were feeling well, or not well.”

“All right. We’ll go out-- it would be nice, to have a date night.” Llewellyn smiles, giving Jack’s cheek a pat. “It would be nice to see this face. After dinner with your mother… drinks?”

“The usual place. You can get supper there and I’ll meet you later on. And we’ll pretend we just… ran into each other by chance.”

“A happy coincidence.” He gives Jack one last kiss. “I’m off.”

He already has lunch in his coat pocket. He’s set to go. And with a very final peck, Jack lets him.

He develops no regrets during the day, only the certainty that he wants to try and keep that side of things more private if they can. But perhaps it would be enough to sit on a footstool instead of the floor, and he could lean his elbow across Jack’s lap rather than laying his head there, and it would be all right.

When Jack arrives, his trepidation melts easily at hearing Llewellyn’s day has been good. They chat about work, he asks after Jack’s mother. After a couple of rounds of drinks, he dares leaning against Jack’s shoulder the way other men do when they hang around watching each other play darts. Something it turns out Jack is fairly good at, though Llewellyn doesn’t trust himself to throw sharp objects while inebriated given his hand-eye coordination sober. Still, he gets to cheer Jack on, gets to sling an arm around him in a congratulatory way, same as any man might. He notes that even casual acquaintances seem to be physical with each other towards the end of an evening, and if he sways a little on his feet, then it’s only appropriate for Jack to put an arm around him to keep him falling…

He might play up how inebriated he is, just to be able to have that. 

It’s a bit sobering to leave the coziness of the pub for the night outside. There’s no moon overhead, and all the smoke of the city hides the stars… he misses the night sky when it’s not _there_ , the way it is when he travels. He doesn’t like how unilluminated the world is, when the pubs wind down-- at least for those with work in the morning-- and the streetlamps don’t have much throw. He doesn’t like having to worry what’s out there-- he doesn’t worry, when they’re heading home early in the evening, but now he ought to be on alert for the both of them, and there’s no moon and his senses are slowed. Suppose they were mugged? Suppose...

“I detest the winters here.” He sighs, pulling his gloves on. Stepping down from the pavement where it’s too narrow for two, in order to allow Jack the room to walk.

“They’re not so bad.” Jack says, and the slightest hint of fondness in his voice is… much. “You just need a warmer coat.”

Well. Trust him to think of that, even if it’s not the problem. Trust him to _find_ a way to fuss over him when he can’t do so openly. And… and trust him to _understand_ , he thinks, if he tells him what the problem _is_.

“No, no-- it’s not the _cold_ , it’s the dark.” He retakes the pavement, turning towards home. Well, Jack’s home, which is… Even if he won’t stay, he certainly isn’t going to leave him to walk home alone on a night like this. Overcautious or not.

“I prefer the dark.” Jack snags him before he gets very far, and it’s not a light touch to redirect, it’s… it’s with all the strength of a man accustomed to hauling hundreds of pounds of meat in a day, sometimes quite a lot at once-- and what is Llewellyn, if not also pounds of meat? Well, in a sense. He steers him off-course, back into the side alley. “No one can see what you’re getting up to.”

And being steered was _enough_ , being steered with that strength behind it could still put him _firmly_ into the previous night’s mindset, but Jack shoves him forward, into the shadows, and the part of him that might have protested this as a bad idea is… gone. His back hits something solid and he feels loose inside from more than drink. And Jack, close behind him, hand moving to his chest-- oh, he hopes it’s to keep him pinned… The alley smells unpleasantly but not unpredictably like refuse and he doesn’t _care_ , if Jack will only pin him against the wall here, he would stay all night.

Not only pinned, _kissed_ , out in the open, and he is Archimedes in the bath. They’ve stolen slight touches before in the space between streetlamps, never anything like this, but he understands now what Jack means, what Jack has considered. What this much privacy allows them to do. Jack’s hand sliding up to cradle his face, and he feels so _held_ by him, so cared for, and he could… he could easily fall headfirst into this feeling, the feeling that he could belong to him.

“I’m starting to appreciate your logic.” He says, as they part, as he considers begging another. As he considers saying they could go home together after all, please, couldn’t they? It’s not cautious to, but that doesn’t mean it’s not safe.

“Come on.” Jack tugs him forward, and he moves with him easily. ‘Come on’ sounds very much like they might be going to the same place, mightn’t they? Might fall into the same bed. Might fall into more than that… “Llewellyn--”

He sobers quickly at Jack’s tone-- tense, contained fear. Someone else nearby? He readies himself for action, but it’s ultimately unnecessary. There’s another man in the alley, all right, but he’s not going to be saying anything…

The real problem is that he and Jack can’t have been in a dark alley together when the police get involved, when anyone who knows him-- knows them-- show up. He could talk his way out of some things, but he couldn’t talk them both out of this. Someone would ask, someone would want to know what they were doing together. Why he would willingly put himself in Jack’s company in such a setting, knowing what he knows about him… One thing to be cordial in the light of day, now that the inspector has softened, but to cut through a dark alley with him, someone would know. They would suspect, at least. A man goes down a dark alley at night with a known homosexual, someone would say something. Even if it was an off-color joke from a constable who’d been on duty when Jack had been in their cells, it could raise someone’s suspicions. He doesn’t know who might show up when he puts the call in, but he knows… and Jack has to know, too, that the wrong person could damn them. George isn’t in town to help keep their secret, Murdoch would know and he would be obligated… no matter how sorry he might be, he would be obligated to the law, he’s bent it enough for Llewellyn already and he can’t ask him to be so kind again. Brackenreid might be a friend when everyone’s following the law, but he _won’t_ protect them if he sees. He couldn’t do what he’d done to Glen and then let Llewellyn off the hook for the same.

“Go.” He urges, though for what feels like a too-long moment, longer than he thinks it could possibly be in reality, Jack does not. “I’ll handle this.”

_Let me_ , he doesn’t say, _let me be your white knight now when it’s_ important, _let me keep you safe_ , but he does what he can to communicate it with a look when the words feel too much, and he sees the shift in Jack’s eyes as he accepts it. 

They’ll need to schedule another date, he thinks-- this one has left a rather bitter taste. A night together with no disasters, now that they’re getting a handle on being out in public together and not… not fighting quite so fruitlessly against blistering desire. True, Jack still does sometimes look at him like he’d like him a little less dressed, like he’s thinking about what they could be doing if they were alone, but they did manage some self-control. And, as Jack keeps telling him, there’s much the world won’t see, no matter how obvious.

That would explain the stench, he’d chalked it up to something other than a human corpse, but… well. A fresh body doesn’t have the kind of sick-sweet smell of rot that would have chased them out of the alley, but death has a smell just the same. And this body is certainly fresh. A possible mugging gone wrong, which doesn’t make him feel any better about things. He’d had no choice but to let Jack get home on his own, and suppose-- but if the killing was personal, then Jack will be safe, and a mugging gone wrong, the mugger won’t be looking for someone else in the same area, not after that. Jack’s a less tempting target than a man dressed like the corpse is. Still, he won’t feel easy until he can talk to him again. But there’s no way he could have walked him home and then dealt with the body.

The case isn’t given to him. He’s not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, he’s not sure what to feel at all. He wants to check on Jack, he can’t check on Jack. Well… it’s not as if Jack hasn’t seen a dead body before, at least this one was a stranger and not someone he’d once loved. Even so, he should _be_ with him. He should be taking care of him.

He feels an unreasonable need for caution, he knows it’s an unreasonable need. Murdoch asks him what he was doing in the alley and it puts his hackles up, but it’s a routine question-- and given the last time he was found in an alley with a body, he can hardly complain if the question comes up-- and most importantly Murdoch can’t know Jack was ever with him, he has no reason to suspect anyone was with him, man or woman, close or not, purposeful or accidental companion on a journey home. If he’s mentioned no one, there’s no reason for suspicion on that front. Only on the question of what he’d been doing there.

He does his best with his own case, but he feels too scattered to pretend at normality. Every little thing seems to jangle his nerves as he takes the robbery victim’s statement. 

And then… then there’s the matter of the man who must be Glen’s replacement. Well… perhaps it’s for the best he work with someone on this, in case he misses anything there will be another set of eyes and ears. Besides… he knows the frustrations of working at stationhouse one, he could stand to be friendly. Maybe not tonight, especially, but he does his level best and he can be better when they reconvene. He must still be working with Mosely, Llewellyn hasn’t heard that Mosely’s retired, and for all the man’s idiocy, he was always hard on younger detectives, always fearful of having his favor usurped by an up-and-comer. He’d gotten Llewellyn thrown out-- roundly supported by the others there, to be fair-- and he’d been trying to do the same once Glen had shown too much promise, it sounded like, before fate took care of that for him.

So now unless Mosely is planning to retire, he’ll likely be making himself into Edwards’ enemy before long… not to mention the general air of incompetence he’s always engendered at stationhouse one, the difference between the average constable there and the average at stationhouse four was astonishing. It’s not an easy place to work, and it’s not an easy place to distinguish yourself-- well, Llewellyn had managed, but he wouldn’t be surprised to learn Mosely is actively keeping real work out of a junior detective’s hands.

He’s not used to a case of this importance, as a detective, he seems less than sure of himself, but… having a second shot at working with the man, in the light of day, he thinks he’s decent enough. Or he supposes he wouldn’t wish stationhouse one on any man. 

When they go their separate ways in the course of the investigation, he gets out to Jack’s shop, to arrange a second chance at their evening out-- and, really, just to make sure he’s all right. 

“I don’t have time to stop and talk now, I just needed to know-- I needed to know you were…”

“I’m fine, Llew.” Jack promises, drawing him back into the office a moment, where he can touch his face, even if they have to listen for the bell. “I was a little shaken up-- I would have rather spent the night with you, after that. But… well. We’ve both seen worse. When will you have time?”

“Tonight. Same place. Supper? Sundown?”

“It’s a date.” Jack leans up to kiss him. 

“I can’t stay. I-- things right now are… But later.”

“I understand.” He nods, lets him go with a last little bit of attention, a gentle scratch through his stubble and an adjusting of his tie. “Believe me, I do.”

He believes him-- last night was a shake-up, it’s hard to feel safe… but he’ll do what he has to to make sure Jack can feel safe. Jack slips him out the back door of the office, when the bell over the door does signal a customer, and he wishes he could linger. The alley behind the shop smells like blood and petrichor, and the air around them feels oppressive as ever. 

Back at the stationhouse, he asks after Murdoch’s case, doesn’t think it’s at all strange for him to. The facts are neither encouraging nor discouraging at this point. It’s early yet to have all the answers, but he has come to trust in Murdoch’s success rate. He’s seen the way he thinks, and… for all that he couldn’t name a man he thinks he’s less like in most ways, they approach a crime with near enough to the same mindset, if he could trust himself to solve a case he can trust Murdoch to be as successful, at least. 

He’s not surprised when he and Jack do meet, that he’s fallen into a similar melancholy worry, that he feels the same tension. He does his best to think about what Doctor Ogden would tell him-- that these worries are… that they come from a real place, but that it doesn’t mean that they’re credible fears. He gets them a first round, nothing strong this time-- he imagines they won’t go so many rounds, with last night hanging over them, but… well.

“The people you work with already know about me.” Jack goes from toying anxiously with his glass to folding his hands to keep them still. And his heart lurches at the unnecessary reminder, that they can never be more than courteous to each other around anyone from stationhouse four-- save George-- but this time, in this matter… there’s no association. And it’s his turn to soothe Jack, when Jack has talked him through so many fears. 

True, pointing out that they don’t know about him is cold comfort, when Jack still has to live with the weight of it over his own head… but it’s something. They still have some room to deny. At stationhouse four, everyone has seen Llewellyn with a girl before, he’s got that to fall back on. 

Pointing out that they don’t know about him is cold comfort, but he reaches over to pluck a bit of lint from Jack’s suit as he promises caution. It’s not much, as fussing goes, but he hopes… he hopes that it means something to him to be fussed over in such a small capacity. He doesn’t know how else he can make him feel secure, when he can’t fuss properly the way Jack does for him, when he can’t stay the night with him because they’re both too anxious to enjoy it now. He’d hoped supper would be the right move and now he doesn’t know. They’d had such a good night up until it all went wrong, starting here, but now the place seems tainted, the case hangs over them. Still, he thinks Jack would have been more anxious not being able to ask about it, and just to see him is something. 

Edwards is a snag in the evening. Before they have the chance to relax further over a meal, finish their drinks, possibly loosen up, there’s Edwards, and he doesn’t know what to do, say. They’re saddled with a third wheel for the remainder of the evening, and he can’t do anything about it-- furthermore, he can’t escort Jack home, which only serves to heighten his anxiety. They’ll have to reschedule their evening yet again, but he’s determined now to do so, to have one good night where they can just relax and enjoy themselves and be safe. They know now that they can look like any other pair of men, they’d done it before, they just need… they just need to be able to do so without finding a corpse on their way home.

At least he can call Aldous in as an expert, for the case-- he tells Edwards he knows someone who might be able to answer a few questions, and he’s hoping to be able to catch Aldous alone. If he asked Aldous to check in on Jack, he’d make sure he was all right, and he’d pass along a message. This isn’t as bad as when he’d been working to clear Murdoch, with Fellows, with serious oversight from on high, this is only one new acquaintance, but…

Edwards knows people at stationhouse one who once knew him. He had mentioned having been there a few years back, during a casual conversation, an attempt at bonding. Yet today, Edwards seems uneasy. He doesn’t say anything, he only seems a little frosty and a little on edge, there are no problems between them. But suppose he had mentioned Llewellyn to anyone and been told that there was something wrong with him, that _he_ was unfriendly? All right, so now and then he had been, there-- he’d been sick to death of stupid people, and stationhouse one was a magnet for them-- but he’s doing his best _now_. He knows what Edwards’ position is like. And… well, and on learning the man was a widower, he couldn’t help but feel some sympathy, remembers the day Jackson had told him the same, when they had bonded over their shared histories of loss. So he wants to be friendly, but he knows he’s bad at it, and it would not be difficult for Edwards to be poisoned against him if he did ask around. He can only hope that he will trust his own evidence over four year old gossip. And perhaps it’s only the stress of the case.

He doesn’t get to see Aldous alone, because Edwards insists on questioning him in an interview room, insists on going together to ask for his help. There’s no way of asking him for a favor, though he knows if he did it would be granted readily. That’s the worst part, knowing how close to done it is, knowing Aldous would make them a priority, he wouldn’t even need to know all the surrounding troubles, but he can’t speak freely.

He can’t even respond as he might, when Aldous is-- well, Aldous. Sociable and well-meaning and kind and not at all discreet. Of course it’s not suspicious that he and Aldous might have run into each other somewhere, he’d said he knew the man and the truth of it is that if he was asked how, he knows him _as_ an expert witness, an authority on various largely artistic subjects. And yet the reminder of the safety of the book club _here_ sends a chill down his spine. The book club and the interview room shouldn’t exist in the same world. The book club, where he had laid his head on Jack’s knee, where he had knelt at his feet and been fed a chocolate and called _lamb_ and petted at until he was dizzy-drunk on the joy of belonging to his man.

This is a bad time to be lost in thoughts of that night. And after _last_ night, as badly as he longs to see Jack, he doesn’t think either of them dare get too close. Not two nights in a row, not when they could be spotted. He goes a night without calling on him, but he can’t sleep thinking of him. Staring at his photograph, wondering whether he was well, wondering how safe their usual place. Until the murderer he’s not tracking down is caught, he can’t _know_ , and yet if they didn’t meet in their usual pub, where would they? What could they arrange? He wants to soothe Jack’s fears, and yet the best way of doing so might be to keep his distance a little while longer, but he can’t not communicate with him at all.

His luck turns around when Aldous calls on him with a tip-- it gives him the opportunity, while there’s no particular scrutiny hanging over them, to slip him a note and ask that he deliver it.

He doesn’t have the luxury of time, to write much-- _staying safe, thinking of you, meet me Saturday?_ \--but it’s something. And if Jack can meet him, they’ll say what needs saying then, and if Jack can’t, then perhaps he can send word back at least. 

The note is already tucked away in Aldous’ pocket when Edwards joins them, and so they catch him up on the pertinent details before Aldous is off on his way. And then…

“I believe the word is ‘cultured’.” Llewellyn does his level best not to let too much ire into his voice. This can’t be personal. Aldous isn’t in any danger, he hasn’t done anything actionable, it’s only a _word_ and Llewellyn has heard worse. Still it stings to hear it thrown after him when he is _helping them_. And…

And because he is a friend, because he has opened his _home_ , because he is a good and kind man and he is taking a message now to Jack. Because even if he will never hear Edwards speak of him this way, that doesn’t make it all right. But there’s nothing he can do, except refuse to engage in speculation, except suggest that this is merely how thing are in the art world.

“Is that what they’re calling it now?” Edwards says, with a mean little barely-voiced laugh. 

He can’t be surprised. He can’t be. One of the best men he knows is no kinder on the subject. It still stings.

But it’s not important, it is not pertinent to their case, and they have work to do. In time, the moment will be forgotten. Not by him, he thinks, but by Edwards. In Llewellyn’s experience, it is far easier to forget the unkind words one has spoken, than to forget the unkind words one has suffered. At least it seems to be, judging by how others can sometimes behave after cruelties.

It’s going to be all right, because they’re going to bring in a suspect, ask questions, make headway, perhaps even wrap their case, and then they can be friendly. He wouldn’t be the first man he’s been friendly with-- to the best of his ability-- despite knowing this part of him would be violently rejected, he won’t be the last, it is… the way of the world.

“Oh, Watts--” Edwards stops him, before he can make for the door, and so he pauses to put his coat on at a standstill. “I thought I should inform you… I recalled a rumor, and it turns out to be true. That friend of yours, the butcher? He was, ah, picked up by our stationhouse a few years ago for suspicious homosexual behavior.”

How do people react, to news like that? How do normal men react? A few years… what did ‘a few years’ mean? Was this during Glen’s time? His? Before his? He wants to believe it can’t have been when he was there, that he would have known somehow, that he would have…

What? Protected him, a stranger? From a thing he still felt shame over in himself? He would have been terrified. He could never have approached him. Could he have? And there was every likelihood that he wouldn’t have known even if it had been while he was detective, or while he was a constable. He would have been elsewhere, and if it was only suspicion and nothing provable, then… there would be record, yes, but nothing they could hold him on long.

“I did not know that.” He manages. It’s the truth-- Edwards may as well believe he’s in shock to learn he’d been spending time with a suspected homosexual, not that he’s reeling from the question of whether he could have done something at the time, if he’d only known. 

Of course Jack has some experience with being picked up by the police… he’s spoken about how they handle deviancy cases. And yet he’d wanted to believe he knew from hearsay, from others, that he’d been warned about how bad it could be, not that he’d… not that anyone had ever… Not _Jack_.

Edwards’ words wash over him, he knows enough of what he’s saying. This was his warning-- give Jack up, or be painted with the same brush. His own reply washes over him, all he can think is that he’s already sent word to Jack about meeting, and he won’t stand him up. Not if he’s able to make it. They’ve been apart too long, and the last time they were together, they couldn’t enjoy it. He _longs_ for him. To see his smile, to hear his voice, to be looked at, to be… to escort him home and to _stay_ , to make love to him and to rub his back and to be certain that he is faring well enough through it all. To take care of him and to be taken care of.

It’s a warning, but not a threat-- at least he doesn’t think. Edwards is as friendly as he ever was with him as they continue their investigation. Whatever nerviness he’d gone through earlier seems smoothed out with this new headway, and they’re in agreement about all the fundamentals. He can accept that he means well, even if it hurts. After all, he wouldn’t be the first man to warn him off of being too close, too trusting, with Jack… and if Llewellyn made an enemy out of every man to take against homosexuality, he’d be left with precious few friends. He _needs_ to have better relationships with people in his line of work. He _needs_ to be able to work with people, however many problems come with collaboration. And… he wants to. He wants to be a man who has friends.

Maybe not close friends-- he can’t be truly close to someone who would put Jack in any danger. But he can form a cordial working relationship and isn’t that something? It’s nice to have someone at stationhouse one who doesn’t hate him. If he ever needed something from his old files there again, he could _need_ a friend, and like it or not, Edwards is the closest thing he has to one of those. He could cultivate something useful and professional and mostly-distant. Some goodwill. Something distant but courteous _enough_ could make them safer, instead of placing them in further danger.

With the job ready to be wrapped, there won’t be any need to subject himself to potential scrutiny-- nor to further disparaging talk-- but that’s no reason to throw away a potential ally. And as soon as he can get this taken care of, he can join Murdoch with dealing with the murder, and if he can deal with that quickly, he can reassure Jack on the matter, and that’s what he really wants. Oh, certainly he cares about wrapping his own case, but… well, it’s not a _murder_ and it’s not personal.

He and Edwards work well enough together. More smoothly than he’s worked with most, and though he’d rather be working with Murdoch or with George, it… it’s good to know he is more capable than he thought, of being a team player. Of setting aside his feelings and getting the job done, and being thought of well. Having his work trusted, his judgment trusted. He doesn’t like that Edwards looked into Jack, but it’s hardly a new facet to their relationship, to be looked into… to have to hide their association. With Brackenreid there was hope of his coming around to the trust he’d once had in Jack being a good man, though he hadn’t trusted in it until it happened, but with Edwards there’s nothing beyond a single evening’s polite company. They part amicably, that’s all that matters.

And then, _Jack_. Just to spot him from across the room, after what’s felt like an eternity apart! He happily submits to being fussed over, in what little ways Jack dares. All he can think about is the freedom to reach for him, to touch him, to hold him close and feel right again… how much he misses his bed-- not only the pleasures of making love in it, but the comfort. The smell of Jack’s pillows, the softness of his sheets, the lulling sweetness of his breathing, his heartbeat, when sleep is elusive. The haven it gives them, a place to exchange words as well as touches, to be slow and easy together. To trade massages and to read together there sometimes, instead of in the chair. 

There’s so much he wishes he could say, after how long they’ve been apart. And how he wishes it could all be gentle, loving teasing and sweet words, but he has to keep Jack informed. He wants to protect him and keeping him in the dark won’t do him any favors. He wants to bask in Jack’s gentle flirtation, in the little touches and the laughter, but it isn’t fair to him. He can’t spend all night being brought drinks, being neatened up, being reminded that he is cared for-- he has to do his duty by Jack and take care of him, too. He has to tell him what’s happened.

“Jack…” His smile falls, he draws him back towards the wall, where as long as he leaves a few key words out, they can talk. “Your record, at stationhouse one…”

“What?”

“It might have been when Edwards was a constable, I don’t know, he-- he recognized your name from somewhere other than your shop, he asked about you there.”

Jack nods, he can see him struggle to keep the fear under control. “There was nothing that could be taken to the courts. A couple of incidents… in one, I was-- present, but not implicated. Another… I was brought in, but all they could say was that I was associating with dangerous friends, and… that even if nothing could be proven, they knew. I’ve never been taken to court, but I have been picked up.”

“He warned me about you. But it’s only suspicion, in the end it’s no different from what stationhouse four already knows. It doesn’t change things.”

“Doesn’t it?” Jack frowns, looks away.

Llewellyn feels cold. His breathing comes hard and rapid. “You-- think it’s too-- I’m too-- dangerous?”

“I’m not going to put you at risk. If Edwards asks you, you need to tell him you no longer associate with me. You need to thank him for warning you, the kind of man I am.”

“But-- No, but it’s over. He’s back at his own stationhouse, it’s done. The case is wrapped. It’s-- you don’t have to--”

“It’s not forever.” He shakes his head, and the vise on Llewellyn’s heart eases, slightly. “Oh-- _oh_ , no-- I meant what I said before. I know the risks and I am not-- I’m not going anywhere. But I shouldn’t have come _tonight_. He might be done with your case but that’s no promise it’s over.”

“I’d already sent you that note, before I knew. And-- and I had to know you were holding up. I _had_ to see you.”

“Llew.”

“How long ago was it?” He asks, surprises himself with it. “Your… trouble, there.”

“Two years, two and a half, for one incident. And… a similar one, before that, at a different station. They-- It wasn’t pleasant. But they weren’t interested in keeping record of my stay. They knew they didn’t have a case. Just wanted to scare me, I expect.”

“So… not when I worked there.” He sighs. Hates that he can’t hold Jack close, now. “I couldn’t have helped you.”

“I didn’t expect anyone to. Once… once, the worst of it, there was a… clerical error, which might have saved me a lot of trouble, but my record is what it is. And you couldn’t have helped me then, if you had been there. And I would not have been worth the risk to you.”

“Still. Jack, you _know_.”

“I know. And _you_ know. But… I wish you hadn’t told me. No-- no, you needed to. You needed to, or I could have put you at risk. But… it was so good not to have a shadow over us, for a little while.”

They steal the touches they can, over drinks, and it’s never enough, but… it’s what they have, tonight. To go home together might be too dangerous, yet. To stay the night, even to go up to his building, but with drinks in hand, they can pretend at more serious inebriation. They can list into each other, pat at backs and shoulders.

“I’ll be put on the murder case.” He adds at last, daring a hand to Jack’s waist. Only for a second, only as he moves past him to the bar for a second round, when he can excuse touching him like that in passing.

“ _The_ murder case?” Jack asks, voice low, as he follows him.

“That’s the one.” He nods. “If Detective Murdoch much needs me at this point. I plan on going in tomorrow just in case. I’d… like to see it wrapped quickly. I don’t like to think that the streets here might be dangerous.”

“No, neither do I. Especially not when I don’t have my white knight to walk me home.”

“But tonight, though--”

“We shouldn’t. We should leave separately. Llew, you were _warned_.”

“Not all the way to your building. But-- down a couple of blocks. Jack, down a couple of blocks from where the _murder_ happened.”

“You’ll just have to catch a murderer. And I’ll just have to be my own protector tonight. And… yours. In my own way.”

“That’s not what I want.” He shakes his head.

“It’s not what anyone wants. But I’m scared, and I’m going to _be_ scared, until you can tell me for certain that it’s safe. And it’s not some murderer I’m scared of.”

“It will be. But… all right. Just-- stay _safe_ , Jack. I need this to be because you’ll be safer without me than with me. And I’m not going to sleep easy until--”

“Until there are no more killers lurking behind our favorite places.” Jack cuts him off, but the look in his eyes says that he knows.

“I’ll come by the shop and let you know.”

“All right. And-- _you_ stay safe. Take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

“Wait a while, before you leave.” Jack brushes a hand over his shoulder, as if he’d spotted some crumb or piece of lint. “Then go home, sit tight… in a couple of days none of this will matter.”

“I’ll let you know. When the last of the loose ends are wrapped, and-- We’ll be safe.”

Jack looks at him a long moment, he can see the way his hand twitches and the way he restrains himself from reaching out. The want and the sorrow.

“You know.” He nods. “Wait around, finish your drink. And… Llewellyn. You know.”

“Just get home _safe_. Maybe Tuesday. I’ll-- well. You know. I’ll make sure we’re safe for the future, as long as you stay safe tonight. And-- Tuesday, I’ll tell you everything.”

“Tuesday. I’d like that.” Jack smiles. It’s watery, it’s a close thing, but it’s enough to hold onto. That and the photograph waiting beneath his pillow. One of these days they’ll have a date that goes right, but Tuesday… by then all the loose ends will be wrapped and maybe they’ll just stay in. Make love… just hold each other, like they haven’t been able to. It feels like it’s been so long, since they’ve been able to just hold each other… since he’s been able to fall asleep with his head pillowed against Jack’s chest, or Jack a welcome weight against his own. 

But they need to be safe, he needs to make certain that they’re safe… he needs to talk to Edwards and make sure things there are still amicable. He just needs to clear a few things up with him, make sure that they are still on good terms. If Edwards asks him about Jack, he’ll… he’ll lie. He’ll thank him for the advice and… he’ll lie. And then Edwards will be gone, and he’ll forget all about them.

He isn’t sure how to arrange things, until Aldous drops by.

“Did you and Jack get to catch up?” He asks, fingers tapping anxiously at the edge of Llewellyn’s desk.

“We spoke. It was-- I’m… worried. I need to settle some things, for him. So he can be safe. Until then, we can’t...”

“Oh.” His hand flutters to his heart. “You could come to ours, you know.”

“No-- right now, I can’t go _anywhere_. It’s not safe for any of us, until I’m sure about a-- problem. I just need to smooth over a problem and then it will go away.”

“Well, in that case, I suppose I’ll leave you with business. Those paintings you asked about… I expected the market to dry up, after the artist’s miraculous return to the world of the living.”

“Ah, yes, it would… stand to reason.”

“But that’s just it, it’s quite the opposite. The novelty, I suppose-- everyone wants a painting with a story behind it. I just thought I’d let you know. I just thought… I’ll drop in and see him again.”

Llewellyn sits up straighter. “Tell him-- tell him I’m all right, and tell him I’m going to fix _everything_. Thank you, Aldous. You’ve been more helpful than you know. With the art as well.”

“Happy to be of service. And I’ll find some time to run our favorite butcher down as soon as I can.”

From there, his course of action is clear enough. He has the barest excuse to call Edwards for a meeting. Message sent, wine purchased, all he has to do is make nice, and make it clear there’s no need to keep tabs on him or on Jack any longer. His stomach feels small thinking about it, he doesn’t relish the idea of saying anything disparaging about the man he loves, but he can smooth things over, and… and Edwards will forget about Jack. He won’t need to worry about him, if Llewellyn can make it clear enough there’s nothing to worry about, if he can just be… if he can just be all right at this. If he can be at all politic.

His hopes are high enough. He’s rehearsed it all in his head by the time Edwards arrived. Pertinent facts about their wrapped case, congratulations, small token, and then depending on what Edwards said… if he _had_ to, a thanks for his warning. He runs through it all three times in preparation, so that he can be sure of saying the right thing, and then Edwards arrives and turns it all on its head at step two.

“I don’t like your kind.” Edwards shakes his head, and Llewellyn feels a sick dread rise up.

“What kind is that?” He asks, continues scratch at his eyebrow, tries to remember how to breathe. There are a couple of different _kinds_ he could mean but either way, how would he know? He doesn’t want to hear either answer, but one of them will go worse for him than the other.

And then the bottle shatters and he can only hear that, can only _feel_ that, the sound of it makes him sick to his stomach, it echoes, and he doesn’t hear what words Edwards might call him but he doesn’t suppose he needs to now. 

This was supposed to make them safe. This was supposed to ensure Edwards’ goodwill and keep them _safe_ , this was supposed to put Jack below suspicion, this was… What should he have said when Edwards warned him, to keep him from seeing? What could he have done differently? What did Edwards see in him that so many others have missed? And the wine is, the wine is seeping into the floorboards and the glass, the glass, the sound of it, and this was supposed to make them safe, and the sound of it…

“--friend from last night,” Edwards’ voice suddenly cuts through the ringing in his ears. “He’s in the cells, at stationhouse one.”

The anger that floods him at that is enough to frighten him all over again, the strength of it. The uselessness of it. He wants to strike him, strangle him, tackle him to the floor and grind his face into the shattered olive branch, he had _tried_. He had tried to do this right and he had tried to be a person and he had _tried_ to see some small commonality between them and to be… 

What made him think he could be that man? Friendly, people-savvy, _normal_? What made him think he could employ any of _that_ , on something as important as Jack’s safety? And Jack… it must have already been too late, by the time he’d spoken with Aldous. It must have already been too late, by the time he’d bought the wine. What had he been _thinking_? And Jack… when had he been taken?

He can’t wallow in his guilt now. He can argue with himself over how much blame he deserves to take for this later, he needs…

  
He needs _Jack_. He needs to make him _safe_. He grabs his coat and his hat and his bicycle, pulse pounding in his ears as he sets off towards stationhouse one.


	29. What Has It Cost You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue from The Future is Unwritten. A lot of hurt, but also comfort.
> 
> The penultimate chapter before pure fluffy family comfort surrounds them.

Maybe they stare, when he bursts into stationhouse one, he wouldn’t know, he doesn’t look. His bicycle’s tires are still spinning, laying on the front steps, and he’s moving fast, his feet carrying him down to the cells. His progress is only halted by the constable outside the cells, but once he loses his momentum, he can’t quite regain it. He flashes his badge, says what he needs to to get in, but he feels as if he’s moving through water now-- drawn, yes, he couldn’t not be, but he doesn’t pick back up at a run, he feels clumsy, lost. Seeing him even at a distance, small in the harsh light and cold shadow of his cell here, he could weep-- how is it so much worse than when he was in the cells at stationhouse four? How does he look so much smaller?

Jack is in a cell of his own, kept at least marginally safe from the jeering men the next one over, but-- _oh_ , but not safe. He rises when he sees Llewellyn, and Llewellyn reaches the bars and sees the cuts and bruises to Jack’s face, the blood down his shirt, the way he staggers to meet him and drags one leg. He pulls his gloves off before he reaches out, rests his arms through the bars, his bare hands where Jack can take them, though he doesn’t.

“Your friend brought me in here last night.” He says-- last night! Last night, when Llewellyn should have been with him, though he’s not sure if the shame is hotter for not having been at his side, or for having ever attempted friendliness with Edwards, now… Jack leans against the bars, but careful, avoiding Llewellyn’s touch. “Let some of the others know who and… what I was.”

He looks to the other cell, stomach roiling at the content of the jeering. So they know… they know. They can’t touch him, but they’ve no doubt found enough ugly things to say, over the course of the night, he’d had to spend the _night_ here like this, unable to so much as clean up. 

“I’m going to get you out.” He whispers. Out-- away from these men, the insinuations, the names. Away from stationhouse one, from Edwards and anyone else who might have laid a hand on him last night. Jack can barely keep upright, can barely open one eye, can barely…

“No.” It’s quick, emphatic. The slightest pause, the softness in his gaze-- how he can look at Llewellyn so softly, in the state he’s in... “Just let me handle it. You can’t be implicated.”

“No.” He grabs for him, grasps his arm-- cold, he feels cold when he’s always been so warm, has he spent all night here without his jacket, without a blanket, hurt and freezing? The only visible unbruised part of him seems to be his hands, and that makes it worse somehow. He can’t _leave_ him here. “He already suspects me.”

“Let him.” Jack whispers back, resolute still. “I’ll tell anyone who will listen that you were immune to my advances. You’re a policeman, Llewellyn. Don’t throw that away.”

Any ground he might have gained in the fight against the urge to weep, when he’d been determined to effect some rescue, he has lost now. 

“Jack… you-- you know why I can’t leave you like this.”

“You know why you _have_ to. You know why I couldn’t let you… Now _go_. I’ll handle this.”

He nods, shaky. It’s not lost on him, whether or not Jack intended it, that those had been the same words he’d once used, set on protecting his lover from implication. It would be a breach of… _something_ between them, to disrespect that. And stationhouse one is… his leverage here is limited at best, was limited without the stain of homosexuality on him. He has one shot to protect Jack and he can’t throw it away here.

He finds his bicycle where he’d left it, lying on the steps. He wrestles it upright and rides back to stationhouse four at speed, and this time there’s nothing to stop him and slow him between the street where he leaves the bicycle once more and his destination.

He does knock-- it’s been mentioned to him often enough that he ought to get into the habit-- but he doesn’t wait for an answer before striding into Brackenreid’s office, before dropping into a chair before his desk to _implore_ him.

“Jack Walker is being held in custody in station one’s cells.” He says, without preamble. No time for preamble, no time for nicety, this is the one chance, the only chance, the last chance he thinks he has. He knows it is not a good one. There’s nothing left but to beg and to hope. To hope that whatever reconciliation passed between them, whatever apology, it’s enough. He’ll trade himself on it if that’s what it comes to. Jack at least is of use to Margaret Brackenreid, if her fondness and loyalty put him back into Brackenreid’s good graces once, then couldn’t he do this favor for them now, on the thought that his wife wants not to change butchers?

“On what charge?”

Well… there’s no use lying about it. If he agrees to help, he will know. And… no doubt he suspects as much, knowing what he does know already.

“Indecency.” He sighs, waits for a hardening, a disgust. Instead, he sees something… apologetic?

“Well, I, uh-- I don’t know what I can do about it.” He blusters. It’s something that he takes it better than he might have-- far better than he once did-- but still… ‘I don’t know what I can do about it’? Llewellyn’s heart sinks just the same. 

“He’s a good man, Inspector.” He presses. If he’s not angry, not disgusted, not throwing him out of the office yet, then there’s still hope-- hope, terrible as it is, is the only thing he has left. 

“If he’s guilty of what he’s charged with, my hands are tied.”

Could he ever honestly have expected more? Perhaps not. And the charges… the evidence Edwards had had has to be weak-- so he’d seen them together, so he’d seen them laughing, so he’d seen… what? He’d seen them touch? All sorts of men touch, when they go out drinking, it doesn’t always _mean_ something. There hadn’t been anything dirty about it! But what defense can he offer? What defense can he offer when he knows that he and Jack were both thinking about those things they didn’t pursue that night? What defense can he offer when only a week ago he was in Jack’s bed, legs around his waist, a hand over his mouth because he couldn’t stop from moaning, and Jack was his whole world? A week ago, and it feels like an eternity, he had fallen asleep safe in his arms. He had kissed him goodbye at the door and been ready to take on the world. A week ago and he… just one week, one awful, hideous week separating the bliss of being Jack’s own lamb from the heartrending experience of being once more on opposite sides of a cell door from him, and this time so much worse?

He finds himself on his feet, but he can’t leave, not like this.

“Then charge me.” He turns from the door.

“What?”

“I’m as indecent as Jack Walker, charge me.” Llewellyn demands. Exactly what Jack had asked him not to do, but he is at a loss. 

“You shouldn’t have told me that.” Brackenreid stands, and perhaps his hands are tied on this as well, but so be it. If being a policeman is incompatible with taking care of the man he loves, he would sooner be a prisoner. He already is one.

“Well, I did.” He says. The feeling of the moment is not altogether unlike waiting for an execution, but he is at peace with it. 

“Bloody hell, Watts.”

“Jack Walker should not be persecuted for being a human being, and neither should I.” And he’s never said as much aloud before, but it’s true, isn’t it? All he’s ever wanted is what everyone else gets. All he’s ever been is in love with a good man, an honest man, a man who has been willing to suffer for his safety. All they’ve ever been guilty of is love. “So, Inspector, I leave it to you to do what you think is _right_.”

He waits, a moment, to be told he’s under arrest-- or to be given the small, cold mercy once extended to Glen and told he’s to turn in his badge quietly in exchange for a blind eye. He’s not told anything, and so he goes.

He goes to Jack’s, and lets himself in-- no point in knocking now. No point in… anything. He sheds his coat and hat on the way to the bed, falls into it. He pulls Jack’s pillow to him and he allows himself the time to do what he hadn’t in the cells, what he hadn’t done in Brackenreid’s office. He buries his face in the softness of it and breathes in the scent left behind and he weeps.

What had he thought he was doing? With Edwards, with Brackenreid, with any of it… what had he thought he was doing? He closes his eyes and he sees Jack, looking so _broken_ and yet so strong-- so ready again to suffer for his sake. Once upon a time he had been forced to put Jack in their own cells, and… then to lock him back in, when he’d returned. He’d been… he’d been so self-possessed, then, he’d seemed so fearless in spite of all the good reasons he had for fear. He had held his head high, he had been _beautiful_ \-- he had been pushed to the place where he refused to be ashamed any longer, and Llewellyn had begun to love him just a little bit even then. Had wanted to learn to be himself with the same quiet, discreet, resolute truth with which Jack Walker seemed to move through the world. And… he had wanted to protect him. 

He had wanted to protect Glen as well, yes, but… well. Jack was different from the start. He had wanted to protect him, to make the ordeal easier on him, to… 

To see him smile, even once, as open and as easy as the smile he wore in Paxton’s photograph. He had wanted that.

They had stood on opposite sides of a cell door the first time Jack’s gaze made him feel riveted, made him _helpless_ with the desire to do for him, to do anything. Long before he knew what such a look could mean, before he could fully accept the depth of attraction, before he could fathom having romantic feelings for him, they’d stood at the cell door in his own station, and they had both placed their hands upon it, just distant enough from each other for some manner of propriety he was doing his best to navigate. They had stood there, and he could not hold Jack’s gaze without turning away, too many feelings bubbling up inside of him, but they had agreed to place their trust in each other then, and Jack had been beautiful, and Llewellyn had been helpless.

Well, he had been helpless again, in the cells of stationhouse one. He had been _destroyed_ by the sight of him. They were no longer in friendly company, no one politely agreeing to look the other way and allow them their moment. Instead he had to hear the _things_ those men said about-- to-- the man he loves. Instead he had to put himself out there only for Jack to keep his distance. Two black eyes, cuts-- he’d been struck by someone wearing a heavy ring, likely. Split lip, how _dark_ the blood had been, dried onto his face. How many men had hurt him? How many had Edwards let at him?

He thinks he could kill him, he thinks that he really could. Not in cold blood, but then it wouldn’t be. He doesn’t think that he could ever look at him again and not feel the same hurt and righteous fury. To have done that to Jack… and who knows what else? What damage he couldn’t see, beneath his clothing, that led to the way he’d held himself… and yet, minimal defensive wounds. He didn’t fight back… and he had likely been held, for much of what he’d suffered. He had likely been held to keep him from protecting himself. How many men had it taken? How many men to keep him from curling in on himself to protect his face, his ribs, and then to beat him? Did they take it in turns? 

He’ll never get their names, will he? Even if he hadn’t thrown his career away, he would never be able to get all of their names, see them punished… see justice for what was done. And it _was_ unjust, what they had done. It would have been even if it wasn’t Jack paying the price, of course, but it hurts him more that it is, that he can’t _touch_ him, hold him, tend to him now…

When his tears have all run out, he washes his face, and he goes back to the station, to await whatever long-deferred punishment is coming his way. He doesn’t wait long. He hasn’t even shrugged out of his coat or taken off his hat and scarf, after dropping into his chair.

“Watts!” Brackenreid shouts, leaning out of his door, the office behind him dimly lit-- only his desk lamp seems to be on. “Bloody hell, man, where have you _been_ all afternoon?”

“Does it matter?” He rises from his desk-- he supposes not his desk for very much longer. He can clear out his drawer. He didn’t even get the chance to undo Murdoch’s organizational system… well, not by much.

“Does it-- Look, get in here. Got me going bloody… apoplectic all day and now he asks does it matter! My office, _now_. And for the love of God, shut the door behind you this time.”

Brackenreid pops back in, and Watts follows. May as well get it over with… He goes in and shuts the door behind him, and sees Brackenreid back behind his desk, looking not at the door in expectation of his arrival, but at his sofa.

“Sir?” He asks, and when Brackenreid only continues to look at his sofa, he turns, legs nearly going out from under him at the sight-- Jack, lying there under his coat. He has to catch himself against the arm of it, scrambles to get around the side and kneel down beside it.

“If anyone else shows up, especially anyone from stationhouse one, neither one of you should be here. You got that?”

“Yes, Sir.” He nods, breath shaky. His fingertips barely brush over Jack’s cheek, between the worst of the cuts and the bruising. Jack winces just the same.

“Take him home, Watts. Get him cleaned up. Come back in when… when you’re free to. Suppose you can afford to take a day since you’ve worked the whole weekend, wrapped your case. Couple of days, if need be.”

“Inspector… _thank_ you.”

Jack stirs, cracking one eye open. “Llewellyn?”

“Hey, sweetheart…”

“You… ass.” He sighs, one hand coming up clumsy against Llewellyn’s cheek. “I told you to let me handle this.”

“I’m not sorry.” he smiles, his eyes wet. “Come on, can you stand?”

“With a little help.”

“All right, get an arm around me, let’s-- let’s get you home.”

“Not sure I’ll be able to make it up the stairs…” He admits. “Not sure you could carry me.”

Up stairs? He’s pretty sure he couldn’t. But… 

“I’ll take care of everything, don’t worry.” He promises. “First thing’s first, let’s get you into a cab.” 

Once he gets Jack up on his feet, he helps him into his coat-- Brackenreid is suddenly next to them, helping to keep Jack upright while Llewellyn helps him, and he flashes him a grateful look. Jack’s scarf and hat are hanging by the door, but Llewellyn gives Jack his own scarf, tucking it into his coat. He takes Jack’s, and then gets an arm back around him to walk him out. He manages to get him down the steps outside, but with the way Jack leans into him and the pained sounds he makes, he can see how a real staircase would be… insurmountable, just yet.

They get a cab, he’s prepared to pay what he has to for the places he needs to get. First, to Jack’s, so that Llewellyn can run upstairs and pack him a bag, and then… then to Aldous’ place.

Aldous is just getting home when they arrive, and he gasps at the sight of Jack-- and then he pays the driver before Llewellyn can. 

“Not a word.” He shakes his head. “I was wondering, when I went by and the shop was dark, but oh-- oh, you poor thing!”

“Are you saying… I’m not pretty anymore?”

Llewellyn has to fight a sob along with his laugh. Aldous falls in at Jack’s other side to help them ascend the porch steps.

“You look an absolute fright. But you’ll recover. We’ve all been there…” He lets them into the house. “We’ll just get you cleaned up.”

Aldous leads them not to the front parlor, but back to a sunroom with a large sofa, and they help Jack strip down to his shirtsleeves before getting him laid out, throw pillows tucked under him as necessary. Aldous bids Llewellyn wait there, and he doesn’t need to ask twice. Llewellyn pushes the coffee table aside so that he can pull a low tufted footstool up and sit at Jack’s side.

“Llew… thank you.” Jack whispers, finding his cheek again, his hand a little steadier. “I mean it. I… I adore you, I hope you know that.”

“I do. And I adore you. Jack… I wouldn’t have regretted it.”

“Llew…”

“No, I wouldn’t have. If I had lost my job for you, I wouldn’t have regretted it. I-- I never told you why I became a detective.”

“It’s what you’re good at.” He smiles, thumb rubbing gently at Llewellyn’s cheek.

“My sister went missing, when I was a boy. Our parents died, and she… disappeared. I was taken in, and raised alongside my brothers, but my birth family, I had a sister. And… She disappeared, and then I watched my brothers be bullied, and all I ever wanted… was to grow up to be someone who could protect them. I lost my family, piece by piece, and I thought… I wanted to be able to find her. And I wanted to be able to keep the people I loved safe. And I couldn’t… and when I found my sister, it-- That part’s not important, right now. What’s important is… I wanted to do this job for a _reason_ . But my brothers are gone, and so is my sister, and… and the family I need to protect now, I-- Just… if I couldn’t take care of you, then… what’s it all for? If I couldn’t protect the most important person in my life, then I don’t want to be a policeman. I don’t want to count myself among men like Edwards and I don’t want to uphold laws that do nothing but hurt innocent men, men like _me_. If I can’t do real good then what am I?”

“You do real good. And you’re nothing like Edwards.” Jack scratches along his jaw, before his hand drops, tired-- and Jack catches it, rests it gently over his stomach so that his arm can catch a break. “You’re a _good_ man. And you didn’t throw your career away when you went to your inspector, so please don’t do it now.”

“No, I won’t. I just… That’s-- that’s why. I wouldn’t have had regrets, if he had chosen to take my badge, or arrest me. Well… I might regret being in a cell across town from yours. But that’s it.”

“Mm, romantic, sharing a jail cell. We could have put on a real show for those troglodytes.” Jack snorts. “Although I am at my least kissable right now.”

Llewellyn bends over to kiss his forehead, where he’s not bruised. “I’d find a way.”

“I know you would. You always do.”

“I love you. I love you so much. I’ve never… I never knew that this was out there for me. But it’s true, it’s-- your life is so much of mine now. I want to make you happy and I want to keep you safe, and I want to hear how your mother is, and I never know how to feel when I come by the shop because i hate having to wait for it to empty just to have you to myself but I love to see you at work when it’s busy, and I-- I know that I can’t lose you.”

“Not if I can help it, you won’t. We’ll be careful when we have to be, but I’ll always be yours, you’ll always be mine. You are… everything I ever wanted in a man. Sometimes I can’t believe you’re real, but you are, and you’re mine… and I don’t regret my decisions, either. I will _always_ do whatever I can to protect you, the same as you do me. I will always think about your safety. I will always want to take care of you. And if I get hurt, I get hurt. There are always risks… you’re worth them. All we can do is minimize them… but I won’t stop living my life because it’s risky. I won’t stop loving you. You believe that, don’t you? I won’t leave you?”

Llewellyn nods. He’d thought, in the pub, he’d thought maybe they had hit that line. Seeing Jack in the cells, holding himself up and swearing to protect _Llewellyn_ , he’s beginning to see that the line isn’t there.

He takes Jack’s hand, presses kiss after kiss to each unbruised knuckle. He doesn’t know what else to say… but Jack doesn’t mind falling silent with him. His mouth twitches into a brief smile, after one fervent kiss to the heel of his hand, and he closes his eyes. They could stay this way a while… they could be all right, or close to it.

“All right.” Aldous bustles back into the room, carrying a steaming bowl of water and several towels. “I’ll leave this to you for the moment, I’ve got the kettle going again for tea. And I’ll get the bandages…”

He pauses at the doorway, concern writ large across his face, and then he goes, leaving them some privacy. Llewellyn gets Jack sitting up first, finds the flannel in the pile of towels and wets it, starting with Jack’s mouth. 

“This is going to hurt.” He cautions.

“I know.”

His heart falls at that, but Jack braves a smile for him, touches his cheek. 

“Come on. I’d rather have you do it.” He says, and so Llewellyn gets to work, cleaning away the blood as gently as he’s able, pulling back when Jack hisses in pain, resuming work when he relaxes, when he gives him a nod.

“This really is too many towels.” He says-- it seems the safest thing to say. He drapes one over Jack’s chest so that the water that drips down his chin and neck will be caught. It spots the towels pink, he feels for Aldous’ poor housekeeper… 

Jack chuckles, winces, holds still for him again. When he cleans the gash over his brow, he gently pats him dry before the water can run down into his eyes. Goes from the worst looking spots to the easiest as best he’s able, and treads gingerly with the bridge of Jack’s nose in particular. Painful-looking, but not broken. Around his eye, then the darker dried blood at his hairline, his cheekbone and temple, before finally seeing to the lighter cuts, the blood on his face…

The water in the bowl is light red by the time he’s gotten Jack cleaned up, and the towels are lightly stained-- the flannel may never recover. He’s helping Jack out of his bloody shirt, his pajamas on hand to change into, when Aldous returns once more.

The bruising over Jack’s torso is extensive, and Llewellyn expects Aldous to gasp, but his demeanor is entirely professional as he brings a first aid kit over. 

“Apply this to the cuts, excepting the split lip and being careful near the eyes.” He instructs, handing a jar to Llewellyn. “Jack… any breaks?”

“I don’t think so. I’d know if it was, wouldn’t I?”

“Your ankle or your nose, probably. Ribs… I’ll check.”

Jack nods, and there are winces and grunts as Aldous goes over him as carefully as possible looking for breaks in his ribs, and as Llewellyn carefully sees to any breaks in the skin. but… they both seem satisfied by the end. Aldous removes Jack’s shoes and socks, looking at his ankle and then carefully wrapping it.

“Nothing broken, thank God, just a wrenched ankle. Anywhere else hurt?”

“No.”

“You couldn’t even protect yourself…” Llewellyn says. There are handprint bruises on his arms… 

“What would I have done if I could?” Jack shrugs. “If I fought back, it would have been worse. If I had tried to protect my front, I’d have been down on the ground getting kicked in the kidneys, and that can be worse.”

“I wish… I wish that I’d been with you.”

“You never could have saved me if he’d taken us both in.”

“He wouldn’t have touched you if I’d been there.” The words come out fierce. “You could have gotten away… and I would have taken care of him. And he would _never_ bother you again. I should have walked you home. I could-- I could have _killed_ him…”

“Hush…” Jack runs a hand through his hair. “I’m glad you weren’t. We’re all right now.”

“I could still… if I saw him now, I could still… We-- we were so nice, weren’t we? Didn’t we try so hard to be nice? All of us, and he--” His breath hitches. “He comes in and he, and he does _this_ … and he… I could do it. If I saw him now I think I could really kill him.”

“I don’t think you could.” Aldous tuts. “Not if you didn’t need to, in immediate self-defense.”

“I could.”

“I don’t want you to _have_ to.” Jack leans in, and stops-- whether it’s the pain across his ribcage, or because he realizes he can’t kiss Llewellyn, he’s not sure. “We’re safe now. You did it. You got me.”

Llewellyn wipes the remaining salve from his hands, once he’s covered the last of the cuts and gashes as instructed. Aldous hands him another tin. 

“For the bruising.” He says.

“You’ve done this before.” Llewellyn observes.

“Now and again.” He nods, his expression distant. 

“And for yourself?”

“Oh, not in a long time. But for friends… now and again. I’ll go and get that tea-- and… well. I’ll just see. I’ll see the state of the kitchen. Any teeth knocked loose?”

“No, but I’m not going to be up to eating much.”

“All right.” Aldous straightens up and neatens the first aid kit. He takes the bowl of bloody water with him, and the dirtiest of the linens, as well as Jack’s bloodied shirt. “And I’ll bring you a walking stick to use, while you’ve got that ankle.”

Llewellyn is as gentle as he can be with rubbing balm into the bruises. There are so many, mottled purples and reds and the barest edge here and there of sickly yellow-green. Rubbing balm into Jack’s skin ought to be a sensual experience, if not a sexual one, but this is just… he feels not good enough. Not for this. There’s so much, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He aches to see Jack hurt, it leaves him heartbroken and angry. It leaves him helpless, in a bad way. He helps Jack change the rest of the way into his pajamas once he’s as balmed as he’s going to get, before resettling him on the sofa and covering him with an afghan. 

“Time to lay down the armor.” Jack smiles up at him, soft, small, sad. “I’ll be all right.”

“I love you so much, that’s all.”

“I know, lamb. And you’ve done enough, you can rest with me.”

He can’t-- rather, he can’t share the sofa with him, not without hurting him. But he lowers himself down to the floor, and lays his head beside Jack’s shoulder, and takes his hand. 

“I’m home!” Glen’s voice calls out from the front hall. Llewellyn listens as Aldous intercepts him, can’t make out everything they say until they’re rushing into the sunroom. He lets out a low whistle and comes to lean against the arm of the sofa at Jack’s head. “You had one hell of a time… what’s the other guy look like?”

“Oh, I did a real number on his knuckles. He’ll be feeling that for a few days. Picked up.”

“Aldous tells me.”

“Did you know a man named Edwards, during your time at stationhouse one?” Llewellyn asks.

“Tall constable, weaselly prick?”

“Detective in your absence.”

“Highly weaselly.” Aldous adds.

“I think he’s part weasel.” Jack says.

“I…” Llewellyn pulls away, looking down. “I didn’t notice. I didn’t notice that about him. We were supposed to work a case together, we were supposed to be on the same side, I didn’t see it…”

“Too trusting.” Jack reaches up, scratching at his cheek even as he finds his own hand en route to his chin. “My lamb… your heart’s too big.”

“I never thought it was. When I was-- young, I think… people used to say I didn’t-- _feel_. Like people do. I think my sister didn’t believe… that I would feel anything, really, when-- Well.”

“You feel so much. I see it.”

“I should have realized he couldn’t be trusted, and been more careful… you all saw it and I couldn’t. Even when he-- said, some of the things he said, I… I didn’t know how bad… I didn’t like it, but I-- he’s hardly the only man who’s used words like that. My inspector’s used words like that but he got Jack free, because I asked him to, because I told him…”

“What did he call me, to you?”

“No-- he called Aldous… it’s not important. I didn’t stand for it.” He adds, looking to Aldous, and then to Glen. “I told him not to-- that I wouldn’t… care for that talk.”

“I can only be as the Lord God made me.” Aldous says, hand over his heart and eyes rolled heavenward. 

“And thank God you are.” Glen looks over at him. “Too many of us are in no position to be a beacon. It’s not always so easy to find each other, if men like you don’t burn bright enough to show the safe way through the rocks.”

“Oh…” His hand remains where it is at his breast, his expression faltering, his cheeks pink. It seems impossible now Llewellyn could have missed it all, seeing the two of them. “Oh, honestly, you’re going to make me misty, Glen, you awful thing. Saying such nice things to me. Making me forget all about the kettle I put on, I’ve got to go and get the tea-- no, you go on and sit down, you’ve been on your feet all day I don’t wonder.”

“I’m allowed to sit. Let’s… give the lovebirds their privacy for a minute.” Glen rises from where he’s been leaned against the sofa, sidestepping Llewellyn and placing his hand at the small of Aldous’ back.

“Oh-- oh, yes, a minute.” Aldous nods, and lets Glen escort him out.

Llewellyn settles his head back down by Jack’s shoulder, and sighs when Jack’s hand finds its way into his hair.

“I feel foolish.” He admits. “Not to see I couldn’t trust him at all, that I needed to be so much more careful… I was an idiot.”

“You were naive. You wanted to see the best in him… you were once in his place. Except you… were a brilliant detective, and a sensitive soul. And a good man.”

“I got you hurt.”

“He’s the reason I’m hurt. _You’re_ the reason I’m free. You… you risked everything for me, beloved.”

“Jack, I-- Jack…” He presses close, where he knows Jack to be unbruised. Kisses his shoulder and tucks in against the curve of his neck, squeezing his hand tight. He fights against the urge to weep all over again, just breathes him in. “My own Jack, I should have done better.”

“You couldn’t be any better than you are, and I couldn’t love you more. Just hold me.”

“I’ll need to get some things from my place, later… I only thought about packing for you. Will you be all right with Glen and Aldous if I go and come back?”

“Of course… get your things.” He touches him, stroking his face. “I want you to be comfortable. I’ll be just fine…”

“Because I won’t go if you need me.”

“Don’t be silly, you’re not spending two days in that suit, go on. Pack a few things-- go on, I’m just going to rest as much as I can.”

“All right.” He rises, kissing Jack’s hand before releasing him. “I’ll catch a cab if I see one, I won’t be long. I’ll bring back a nice bottle of something.”

He hates leaving his side, but if Aldous intends to shelter them a while, he will need at least one change of clothing. And pajamas would be nice, he’s not about to sleep naked in Aldous’ sunroom, even with the shades drawn. 

He waits until Aldous and Glen return with the tea, just the same, and turns down a cup of his own, leaving Jack in their care. He’s lucky enough to get a cab, and at his place, he packs what he thinks he’ll need. Along with the bottle of bordeaux he grabs because he knows it’s Jack’s favorite, and because he supposes he owes Aldous and Glen a glass of something for tonight, he finds something from his wine rack that he thinks rates highly enough to leave for Inspector Brackenreid, and he swings by the station, slips it into his office before hurrying back to Aldous’ house, to Jack.

Jack is asleep, when he arrives, Glen and Aldous in the kitchen doing their level best to make soup. Llewellyn sets his bag down in the sunroom-- he supposes he can sleep in a chair when the time comes, if they can’t get Jack upstairs to the guest room-- and returns to sit at Jack’s side.

He looks so pale beneath the bruising, so small and still compared to how he normally is, there on the enormously cozy sunroom sofa, beneath the thick afghan… 

Jack doesn’t stir when Llewellyn lays his head down, and he doesn’t wake when he begins to weep. He is weeping still when Glen finds him.

“He’ll be all right.” He promises, lays a hand on Llewellyn’s shaking shoulder. 

“I love him so much. I let him be hurt.”

“You didn’t let him be, it happened without you knowing. And now he’s here and he’s safe. You… you’ve always done right by him, in difficult circumstances. He told us about how it happened… he doesn’t blame you.”

“He… he called Edwards my friend, when--”

“He didn’t mean that. Do you think he could? That man? Edwards played on your sympathies… he let you think he was on your side and he stabbed you in the back. Doesn’t surprise me, either. Look, you have to… you have to let Jack be bitter about him, angry about him, without thinking it’s about you. It’s not. Jack’s angry for both of you, both of you were hurt. But you need to trust that he’s not mad _at_ you. He’s crazy for you, he’s never going to leave you. Even if you think you’ve done wrong.”

“Do you think? He-- he really isn’t… he doesn’t blame me at all?”

Glen smacks the back of his head, gently. “Not for a minute. So stop.”

“Glen… you’re not boring.” Llewellyn looks up at him.

“... What?”

“You’re not boring. You… you’ve done interesting things, and you read, and you know… a lot about things. And about people. And sometimes you say the things I think people need to hear the most. So… if you were worried that you were boring, or that any of your friends think you’re boring, you’re not and we don’t. And… Aldous doesn’t.”

“You think?” He looks away, smiling.

“He likes living with you. He likes spending time with you. I don’t think anyone could claim you bore him.”

Glen nods, and pats Llewellyn’s shoulder again. “We’ll bring supper in to you two when it’s ready-- I don’t promise it will be good.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

“Glen… thank you.”

He nods again, and leaves the room. Llewellyn continues his vigil, until Glen and Aldous come in bearing soup, and they set up to eat in the sunroom, help Jack to sit. This time, Llewellyn is the one doing the feeding, and that way at least they both keep their heads-- the way they feel about sharing food so intimately only really goes the one way. But still, Jack appreciates it, and that’s all that Llewellyn cares about. Just that he can care for him now, when he needs it… that’s what matters.


	30. Behold How My Lover Loves Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack's recovery continues, and with that, a sense of something better for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's done... but I'll be writing a bunch of bits in Jack's POV and a dinner party and a vacation and some future bits, I hope, so... more to come.

It had taken all three of them to get Jack upstairs and into bed in the guest room, but they’d managed, and Llewellyn had been able to sleep beside him, though they’d set up a barrier to keep him accidentally hurting Jack by rolling onto him during the night, rolled up towels and extra pillows lined up between them. He’d wrapped himself around the barrier itself to be able to reach over and hold Jack’s hand, and that had had to suffice for the night.

The bruising doesn’t look much better by morning light… Llewellyn helps him to the guest bath-- late enough in the morning that he trusts Glen has already made use of any personal effects kept there. Indeed, if he has work, he’s likely already on his way there at the least. 

He helps Jack wash away any lingering salve and balm and sweat, before he puts him in a bath. He doesn’t join him in this one, merely sits on a stool beside the tub so that he can carefully wash Jack’s hair while he enjoys the soak. 

“Feeling any better today?” He dares ask, when Jack has had some time to relax into the bath-- not as hot as it could be, but Llewellyn hopes soothing. 

“I’m not in jail. I have you. I’ll be all right. Just… maybe after everything else, this is silly…”

“I’m sure it’s not.” His fingers return to Jack’s hair, gentle. 

“It’s Monday.” Jack sighs, swirls a hand absently through the water. The bruising down his torso looks especially livid underwater, the rest of his skin so pale… “I’ll have to call and cancel… I can’t show up at my mother’s like this. I know she’ll fret a little if I say I can’t go, but if she saw me now…”

“Mm.”

“I don’t… I don’t like to. I’m all she has left. I mean, she has friends. There are distant cousins. But… since we lost my father, it’s… the two of us against the world, sometimes. And I like to take care of her. She’s spent her whole life taking care of everyone else.”

“Is that where you get it from?” Llewellyn smiles, hand dropping down to knead at one shoulder. “You’ll do what’s best… you’d move heaven and earth to be able to keep your visits under other circumstances-- and there have been some circumstances-- I’m sure she can understand if you tell her just this once something has come up. Tell her a friend needs you tonight-- it won’t be a lie. Not if you can call me a friend.”

“I call you a friend when I’m speaking to my mother.” Jack looks up at him. “And I don’t need to move heaven and earth, I just need to be able to move _you_. Thank you… for still never letting me spend a Monday night in a jail cell.”

“I’ll confess your Monday night was the last thing on my mind, yesterday.”

“And do you need me, tonight?” Jack smiles at him, as much as his split lip will allow. He reaches up, cupping Llewellyn’s chin with one wet hand before scratching gently under it with one nail.

“Every night of my life.” He sighs. 

“I know I’m not precisely _alluring_ , but if you _needed_ me, I’m not so hurt I wouldn’t have a good time. Just… just so you know.”

“A few cuts and bruises couldn’t stop you being _alluring_. Would it make you feel better?”

“Maybe…” Jack lets his eye drift close, lets his head rest against the rim of the tub. “I just want you to touch me, I think. Not… it wouldn’t have to be that. It wouldn’t have to not be. Your hands… I just feel better with your hands on me. About everything.”

“Well, you can have my hands, Jack. They are yours for the asking.” 

He moves his stool around, so that he can kneel on it and rub Jack’s shoulders. He can’t get at his lower back for now, he doesn’t imagine lying on his front will feel good, but… his shoulders, down to his chest. They’re very nice shoulders, and it’s a very nice chest… It’s satisfying, hearing the soft groans and sighs as he loosens up the muscles stress and pain and fear have tightened. Being connected. Comforting, to have places he can touch and touch firmly, dig into, and know Jack feels better for it. 

“You’re getting good at this…” Jack’s fingertips trail up his forearm, drips of water in his wake. “I love your hands, have I ever told you that?”

“You have.”

“Mm, once or twice, huh? Your big, strong, beautiful hands… I do feel better.”

“I’m glad. You’ve got nice hands yourself…”

“Oh, I’ve seen you staring.” He chuckles. “And I’ve seen the way you need to stop staring, sometimes. You like watching me work too much.”

“You’re too good at working with your hands, I’m only a man. I am only a man, blood as hot as any other, can I be blamed? If the sight of what you do with your hands sometimes affects me?” He noses into Jack’s damp hair. The scent of rose soap, not his usual familiar scent, but… nice. 

“You’re the only man I know who _likes_ seeing how sausage gets made.” Jack snorts. 

“It’s just--”

“Oh, I know what it’s just.”

Llewellyn’s face heats, and so he keeps himself hidden down against Jack’s hair. “Well you’re very good at it, that’s all.”

Jack hums, turning towards Llewellyn’s forearm only to stop himself short when he can’t really kiss or even nuzzle at him without pain. “How’d you like me to be very good with my hands for you?”

“If you’d like to-- you don’t need to.”

“I’d like to. I just… want things to be normal, after. And we’re here and we always have such a nice time here. I know I’ve got to rest and I’ve got to keep the shop closed until I’m… less like this. I want one thing where I can feel like myself. And there’s nothing wrong with my hands.”

“There most certainly is not… And you are yourself. And… if there’s anything I can do to help…”

“If you don’t mind posting a sign for me later. And… tomorrow I’ll have the boy open up. If I can stay in the back and get things cut, maybe… but he can man the counter. Paul, he… he sweeps up in the mornings before opening, helps with odd jobs, and he runs deliveries for me. He knows some of the customers and I think he can handle the job. But he’s a delivery boy, not a butcher. His hands… But he’s a good kid. And I’m sure he’s worried.”

“I’ll post a sign. And tomorrow… we’ll manage. I don’t have to go into work-- I mean, I doubt my hands are any more capable than a delivery boy’s, but you’re in no shape to do any heavy lifting. I can help with that. Or I can hang around your office with you...”

“You’d get bored very quickly.” Jack laughs. “But for a little while at least… I’d like to have you there.”

Llewellyn kisses the top of his head, sighing into his hair. “Out of the tub, water’s going cold… let me take care of you.”

Jack accepts his help out of the tub, leans against it to allow Llewellyn to gently towel him dry.

“Oh, all right. And I’ll take care of you later?”

“Reward me with it, when I get back from your errand.” He suggests. “Give me something to look forward to.”

“Oh, shall I make it contingent upon your being a good boy?” He asks, one fingertip under Llewellyn’s chin.

“Oh-- oh, uh, yes. Yes, I-- will be _so_ good.” Llewellyn promises, eyes wide. The room suddenly feels warm, and there’s something heavy in the pit of his stomach but it’s not a sinking heaviness, an uncomfortable heaviness-- it _grounds_ him, a balance to the expanding lightness that moves up from his chest to his head. It keeps him tethered so he can’t float off from himself. 

“Good.” Jack coos, and the look he gives… 

Cruel paradox, that that look should come only after Llewellyn has suggested he might be willing to delay his pleasure, only to make the matter feel far more urgent. 

He helps Jack to get dressed, and he walks him back to the guest room, promising breakfast in bed. Aldous had left a stack of books and his walking stick there, but for most of the day at least, Jack will be confined to this level of the house. The guest room, the bath… if the stack of books at his disposal isn’t interesting enough, there’s Aldous’ study and the shelves there, he’s been granted permission… it still feels terribly stifling to Llewellyn, and he hopes he can prove interesting enough company.

He’s surprised to see Glen not yet out the door when he makes it downstairs, and even more surprised to see he and Aldous in a clinch in the foyer. If his not-quite-advice had had any bearing on things, he supposes he’s glad.

“Oh--” Glen looks up to see him coming down the stairs. “Uh…”

“Are you running late for work?”

“Yes.” He glances over to Aldous, but Aldous is of no help if he was hoping for an explanation-- he’s merely beaming and pink-cheeked and _mussed_. Llewellyn has never once seen Aldous _mussed_ before. 

“Congratulations.” Llewellyn nods. “I’ve got to get breakfast. So…”

“Good luck.” Glen nods back, relaxing. “Well, I’ll… see you this evening.”

“Oh, yes, dear.” Aldous reaches up, coming out of his momentary daze to straighten Glen’s appearance up before opening the door for him. “Have a _lovely_ day.”

“I will.” Glen promises, blows him a kiss from the porch before hurrying off. 

Aldous leans against the door with a sigh that would be theatrical on anyone else, and which seems only genuine on him. 

“When did this…?”

“Last night. _Not_ that I kiss and tell. My goodness, though, that _man_ …”

“You might want to check the mirror before you go anywhere.”

“Oh my.” Aldous pats uselessly at his hair, breaks out into a fresh blush and a fresh grin. “Can you believe? _Him_ , wanting _me_?”

“I have been presented with enough evidence that I can only believe it. Can you help me navigate the kitchen? I’d like to try making a proper breakfast, for Jack.”

“Of course, please allow me to be of any assistance I may. I’m _not_ much of a sous chef, but I do know where everything’s kept.”

Llewellyn knows Aldous’ kitchen better than he might have expected. Aldous stands over one of the stove burners with toasting fork in hand and Llewellyn does his best over the other to make eggs. His yolks break when he’s attempting to fry them, and so he winds up with something that approaches but does not achieve a scramble, but… still, they come out edible. He takes a tray up, toast and eggs and coffee fixed just the way Jack likes, and finds him sat up in bed, the pillows which had formed last night’s barrier keeping him upright now, book closed in his lap.

“Hello, you.” Jack smiles, patting the mattress. “Is that breakfast?”

“I made eggs. Aldous made toast.”

“You made eggs? That sounds lovely. I’m not sure I’m up to toast…”

“I’ll eat the toast.” He promises, handing over the tray and settling himself. 

Jack has to eat slowly and carefully, is also careful sipping at his coffee, but he turns to lean his head against Llewellyn’s, after his first bite of eggs, with a satisfied hum.

“Good?”

“Good.” He nods. 

“Could do with improving.”

“Llew, it’s-- sure it _could_ , but given you never cook, can you accept the compliment?”

“Mm. Well, I suppose. If _you_ like it.”

“It’s exactly what I wanted, thank you, I do.” Jack turns towards him and stops himself with a sigh. “I hate that I can’t kiss you. Come and kiss me.”

Llewellyn complies, tilting in very carefully to avoid his nose, getting as close to his full mouth as he dares, and granting him the very gentlest brush of the lips as he can. Lingering there, feeling a happier sigh, warm against his face. 

“There’s my sweet lamb.” Jack cups his cheek. “Thank you.”

He feels that shiver of delight he’s beginning to find familiar-- familiar, and yet more thrilling each time rather than less. “You’re welcome.”

Having finished his own breakfast, he contents himself with cuddling up against Jack’s shoulder, touching him where he knows he’s unhurt-- the pattern of bruises is clear every time he closes his eyes, there’s no forgetting any.

“Is there anything else I can do, before I go and post a sign for you?” He offers, when Jack sets the tray aside at last. 

“No, I’ll be fine getting some rest.” Jack says, and leans in to be kissed again. “The big key on the ring in my coat pocket will let you in the office through the back, you’ll find everything you need in my desk and then you can post… that I’ve had an accident, or a personal emergency. No details necessary.”

“All right.” Llewellyn kisses him. “I’ll be quick.”

He’s sorry not to have his bicycle, but he didn’t think to try and fit it into a cab with him the night before, when he was getting his overnight bag and dropping by the station. He can pick it up after the shop, and ride back. He winds up taking a cab much of the way to the shop.

The shop, which is… open. Hectic, and open.

Behind the counter, the boy, Paul, looks frantic. He’s apologizing to several customers that Jack isn’t in, and Llewellyn works his way carefully to the counter. He’s glad he’d noticed the shop was open, if he’d come around the back without passing by the front, he’d likely have given the poor boy a heart attack breaking into the office. He can see what Jack had meant about his hands. He holds one close to his body and there’s a visible tremor in it. He manages fine when it comes to handling the weight of things ready to sell, he sees him get a hanging goose down for one customer, and a leg of lamb for another, but he couldn’t do all the same work Jack does.

“Paul, is it?” He flashes his badge-- not so much to Paul as to the woman ready to give him hell for pushing to the front.

“Y-yes, Sir. Paul Samuels, Sir.”

“Detective Watts. And you opened up the shop this morning?”

“Yes, Sir. Mister Walker gave me a key, Sir-- is he in any trouble?”

“No. No, he’s all right. He had an… accident, but he’ll be just fine. He asked if I couldn’t come around and check on things here, he’s not able to come in today.”

“Well I only opened up to get my work done early, I always do, but then it was opening time and he wasn’t here, I thought he was only running late. He does sometimes but not very often, and not very long. And we don’t much have customers so early even when he does, Sir. So I opened up the shop thinking he’d be in only I-- I only clean up the place and take the deliveries.”

“Well, you can close up if you need to and post a sign saying he’ll be back when he can, but…” He scratches at his cheek. “There’s some things you can sell as they are, yes? I don’t suppose you need to close up shop. I’ll post a sign saying he’s not in, you… see how many people you can see to.”

“Would you, Sir? Oh, thank you. I didn’t know what I was going to do.”

“Whatever you feel you can manage. Good lad. I’m sure he’ll thank you when he’s back in, capable-- capable boy.” Llewellyn nods, reaching over the counter to pat his shoulder. He leaves him to the crowd-- can hear him raise his voice to inform everyone that there’s been an accident and Mister Walker would not be in today, as he heads into the office to write up a sign.

He swings by the station just long enough to collect his bicycle, before riding back to Aldous’ as quickly as he can. 

Jack is reading in bed, when he gets in, his bad ankle up on a pillow. He sets the book aside again when Llewellyn comes in.

“Lamb.” He stretches out a hand to him. “Did you take care of my errand for me?”

“Your boy had the place open, he’s doing his best.” He takes that hand and bends to kiss it. “I told him you’d had an accident and you would be fine… I put up a sign to the same effect, to say he could sell anything that didn’t need your hand, and that you would be back at work as soon as you were able.”

“He’s reliable… I wish I could train him in the trade, but I couldn’t ask for better general help. He keeps everything clean and he’s fast with the bicycle cart, for deliveries. And I’ve left him to tend to customers before, days he’s in and I have other work to do. He can man the counter while I’m making sausage… but he’s never had the place open without me there.”

“He can shut down early if he has to, but he seemed determined to make a go with it. Knowing where you were helped.” Llewellyn says-- not that the boy had told him so, but… well, he knows what it’s like, coming in to work thinking you’d do your job, run around town a bit and clean things up, only for your boss not to be in evidence and to find yourself doing his while people ask you where he’s got to and you don’t know. He knows that well…

“Well… setting all thoughts of my shop and my delivery boy aside, _lamb_ , you have been good for me. Ah… if that’s--?”

“ _Please_.” Llewellyn groans, clambering onto the bed, only for Jack’s hand at his chest to stop him coming closer.

“Wait.” He looks him over, slow. “Undress for me. Let me look at you first. And… I’ll tell you, that you’re doing well.”

Llewellyn nods, grateful. That’s what he wants, what he needs right now. He needs to know that no matter how he feels he has failed Jack these past days, Jack sees better in him. Jack sees _good_ in him. And perhaps this is what Jack needs, as well? Their lives have spiraled out of control of late, Jack has suffered for it… here, like this, Llewellyn can give him something to be in control of, and gladly. Not only that, but trust in his control. He hadn’t been able to sit back and let Jack handle it, when he had been behind bars, but he can bend to him absolutely now.

He undresses, slow when Jack tells him slow, and in exchange Jack tells him just how good he’s being. Jack directs him, what to take off, where to put each discarded item, when to stop and to let him look, when to turn around… and every time he does as he’s told, there’s a low and breathy ‘ _good_ ’ to reward him.

By the time he stands naked before him, Llewellyn is hard. 

“Ohh, lamb, look at you…” Jack licks his upper lip. Beckons him onto the bed. “Come here. Come and sit by me. I’m going to make you feel so good… and you’re going to keep on being good for me.”

“Yes-- anything.” And this time he’s allowed to take his place on the bed.

“Close your eyes… can you do that for me, lamb?”

“Yes.” He sighs, does so. Jack’s hand caresses his thigh, warm. Slides up and down, eases from the top to the inner side, urging him to spread his legs just slightly. 

“ _Good_ boy.” Jack’s thumb makes little circles. “You’re beautiful, did you know that? Such a beautiful man… touch your chest for me, we have the house to ourselves right now so make as much noise as you like, just… touch yourself. Gorgeous… those hands on that body. Do you do this, for yourself? Do you do this when you’re alone? When you’re thinking about me?”

“I-- not… not like this, normally? I… in my room, I-- I keep it quick, and quiet. I think of you! I-- I still have your picture.”

“You look at that?”

Llewellyn nods, face heating.

“Sweet lamb… I’m glad. Hey, now-- no, don’t be ashamed of that. I want you to think about me… I want you to look at me. I want to be a part of your pleasure…”

“I always think of you, when I do it. I-- dream about you, sometimes.”

“I dream about you, too. I dream of a big, white bed… where I take you. Where I spread you out, and you… you’re always so at ease in my dreams. And so so am I. And I take my time making love to you…”

“We don’t take our time, in my dreams.” Llewellyn admits. “It’s… we’re-- _wild_.”

“Oh, I like that, too…” Jack’s voice is low and dark and promising. His hand is steady, and so warm. “When I’m up to it, shall we be _wild_?”

He nods, eager, cock jerking. Images from his dreams replace all the awful mental pictures he has of Jack’s current injuries-- he sees him healthy and strong, he sees the two of them twisted around each other, mouths open and wet and hot against each other’s skin. “If-- if you want. Anything you want.”

“Take two fingers, lamb, and suck on them for me, get them wet. Then I want you… Circle a nipple, can you do that?”

He can, though he squirms doing it, sensitive. Almost too sensitive to be good, with the air against wet skin. And as he does, Jack’s hand slips between his thighs to fondle his balls, slow and teasing.

“Pinch it? And just… give it… a little _tug_.” Jack instructs, and despite the knife’s edge of sensitivity he’s already at, Llewellyn obeys, yelps. “Oh, _lamb_. Oh, you’re so _good_ for me. You’re so good… and you’re so eager to please me. And I love you so much… How do you feel?”

“Too much… too much.” He gulps, moving his hands down to his side, clenching at the bedsheets.

“All right, I’m going to take care of you.” Jack promises. “You can relax now, you’ve done so well for me. I’m going to finish you, no more teasing. _God_ , Llewellyn, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever touched. The most beautiful thing I ever could.”

His hand is firm now, around Llewellyn’s aching cock, spreading the slickness he’s been leaking with each pump and twist of his hand. He can hear the way Jack’s breathing is ragged, too, just looking at him, just doing this for him, a soft groan for the sight of him. This is nothing like doing for himself in his lonely room… this isn’t in the same _world_. He’s used to keeping quiet when it’s him, but Jack is working him now and he can’t stop himself moaning.

“That’s right, that’s good, that’s _so_ good… finish for me, lamb, I have you.” Jack groans, and Llewellyn does. 

Jack plays through the mess that drips down from the base of his breastbone down his belly, often seems to contemplate the mess Llewellyn makes before he cleans him. This time, when he looks at the pearly white that clings to two fingertips, Llewellyn leans in to lick those fingers clean. He can’t pin down the birth of the impulse to any conscious thought, he’d merely _done_ , but Jack groans, with just a little whine at the back of his throat, when he does it. 

“Can I please you?” Llewellyn asks, voice ragged. 

“Yes… please do. I-- I need you now.”

He eases Jack’s pajamas out of the way, draws him out. So hard, just from what they’d done already, not being touched himself… and so thick. He knows now how it feels to have that cock inside him. How good it feels to be stretched around him, how perfect the shape of him is… but he likes the shape of him for this, too, for laying across his thighs and turning his mouth to the pleasant task of bringing Jack release. To lavishing him with kisses, one hand around him. And Jack’s hand is in his hair, firm but never demanding, making his scalp tingle, making all of him feel _right_ , until Jack is warning him and this time he doesn’t pull back.

His rhythm is a little off, he doesn’t swallow as smoothly as he could have liked, but he doesn’t choke or gag, either. And Jack keeps petting through his hair, with his clean hand, murmuring loose praises.

“I love you so much.” He sighs, resting his head on Jack’s thigh, 

“I love you.” Jack trails a hand up and down his back, gives his backside a gentle pat. “My beloved… you really know how to take the tedium out of bedrest.”

“Me? You. You… all of that.”

“Did you like it? It was all all right?”

“It was everything I needed.” He groans. “You were.”

“And you… so _sweet_ , Llew. I-- you’re so _sweet_ , and I… when you’re sweet like that, I know it’s… it’s just _you_ , the way that you are. You’re so sweet and it’s just you, the real you. Anyone who ever told you you lacked feeling, I don’t know… I don’t know how a person could look at you and miss the love in you, the kindness.”

He turns his head to kiss the top of Jack’s thigh, happy.

They rest there a little while longer, before Llewellyn goes down to Aldous’ kitchen to find something they can eat for lunch-- something easy on Jack, who can only open his mouth so far without his healing lip threatening to split again, and who’s still too sore to do too much chewing. He winds up making eggs again, just because he knows he can make them and Jack can eat them. They turn out better.

Late in the afternoon, he accompanies Jack down the hall to Aldous’ study, where he has the only phone on the upper level, pulls the chaise over closer to the desk so that Jack can keep his ankle up even as he calls his mother-- and Llewellyn can scan the bookshelves for anything of potential interest, though he can’t not listen to Jack’s side of the conversation. He goes to the shelves at the far end, so that at least Jack’s mother’s voice is indistinct, offers him that much privacy.

“Hello, Mama? Yes, it’s me-- Actually-- Actually, Mama-- No, I’m calling because I’m not well tonight… No… No… Yes… I think I’d better not-- Well, no… Mama, you don’t want to see me this way… _No_ , just-- it was just a little accident, I’m fine… _Mother_ , please… Yes… Yes, with friends… No… No, I’m a mess, that’s all… It looks worse than it is, I promise… Oh, no, I-- Yes… You would? Well… I’ll ask… Yes, I-- Yes. Yes, I love you.”

He hangs up with a sigh, but there’s a lightness around him, and nothing in his tone had ever been more frustrated than fond. 

“We’re going to have to get me downstairs.” He announces, when he sees he has Llewellyn’s attention.

“You’re going?”

“We are. If… if you’ll take me.”

Llewellyn takes a deep breath, and waits for the panic that had seized him once before. 

It doesn’t.

“I would like that, very much. If she expects me.”

“She is. If you couldn’t-- I could take one of the others and… it would be fine. But I want her to meet you, Llew.” He reaches out, Llewellyn moves to kneel beside the chaise, to place his face in Jack’s hand. He’s rewarded with a gentle stroke to his cheek, and then a gentle scratching along his jaw. “She says she’d rather see me in whatever state I’m in than picture something worse.”

“She can picture something worse?”

“She’s probably imagining me without an arm as we speak. No, no, she… she’s not-- She’s just worried more since we lost my father, that’s all. It’s hard on her. She’ll like you.”

“I hope so.”

“She _will_.”

He makes himself as presentable as he can, and he hopes that it’s presentable enough. Jack seems to think so, anyway, fusses over him and calls him handsome five times if he says it once. They don’t make it downstairs until Aldous comes home, to be able to help them, but coming down this evening is easier than going up the previous evening had been, and Aldous calls a cab to come and pick them up. 

It would be a pleasant walk, if it wasn’t for Jack’s ankle, to get from Aldous’ place over to his mother’s. Between the borrowed walking stick and Llewellyn’s arm, they manage to reach the front door. The woman who answers is familiar now, from seeing her portrait in the shop’s office often enough. She’s nearly as tall as her son, her hair dark and streaked with iron grey, neatly kept, an apron over her dress. Jack hasn’t got her coloring, but he has her nose. 

“Oh! Look at you, Jackie…” She tuts, her hand hovering at his cheek a moment, not making contact. “Come on in, come in, what happened?”

“It’s fine, I’m going to be all right. This-- this is Detective Llewellyn Watts, Mama. Llew, may I present Charlotte Walker?”

“Enchantée.” Llewellyn takes her proffered hand, bowing slightly. He can’t remove his hat until they get Jack settled inside. It’s a good-sized house, and cozily appointed. Not richly, but warmly, with color everywhere, and everything soft and worn with time. Art covers the walls. One large portrait of Jack’s parents hangs over the mantle-- his father, Jack resembles. Has the same jawline, the same sandy hair and sea-blue eyes. A wedding portrait, it looks like. 

“So this is the famous Detective Watts.” Mrs. Walker beams, as they get Jack to the davenport, get a footstool in front of him. 

“ _Mama_.”

“Jack tells me sometimes about your cases.”

“He does?”

“He thinks very highly of you. I hope you like chicken, by the way. I have one stewing.”

“Oh, I like everything.” He promises. “I-- he speaks very highly of you, as well, of course. I mean… well, what I suppose is the normal amount. To-- to speak highly of your family, to… to friends.”

“I’m sure. Well he’s always been very devoted to family.” She doesn’t sit, just stands over her son, to gently neaten his hair. “And now it’s just us. At least, for now. A future addition would not be unwelcome.”

“Mama, I’m not--”

“I know.” Her voice is soft, and Llewellyn feels like he’s missing several conversations that pass between them, her hand gentle in his hair, his expression pained and hers… hers so like him somehow. “I know.”

“I-- I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. And I’m not.” She does touch his cheek, careful. “Jackie, I love the son that I _have_. I want the world for him. Now… what happened to you? Really?”

“I was beaten up again. And… it-- it’s never been bar fights.”

“I know.”

“It was outside a pub, but… it wasn’t a fight. I was… picked up. By the police-- It’s not important. Llewellyn took care of me. He’s a good man, Mama.”

“Llewellyn-- I hope you don’t mind, if I’m informal, I just feel like I know you so well.” She turns to him, motions to the davenport. “Sit, sit, please. You took care of things, for my son?”

“My inspector did. A favor to both of us… but, he’s a customer, of Jack’s.”

“He told me how you asked him.” Jack gives him a look. “This wasn’t a favor because I’m a good butcher.”

“Well, you are.”

“I’m glad he has you to look out for him, then.” Mrs. Walker-- or, ought he call her Charlotte?-- pulls her chair closer and sits across from them. “I’ve always had to worry about this one. I know he doesn’t like me to, but a mother does.”

“I-- I will. I mean, I hope not to have to, like this, but I would.” Llewellyn nods. There is much he feels uncertain of, just this moment, but one thing on which he could never be uncertain is this. “I wouldn’t let him be in any trouble if I could help it. Well-- that is-- on account of he, he really is a good butcher. Or, a good friend. But also, I mean, I don’t know how well I’d eat if-- So… ah…”

Jack takes his hand, squeezing gently. “He’ll take care of me. And I take care of him.”

“I’m glad. I think I like this one, Jackie.” She leans forward, patting Jack’s knee. “Very handsome. I just hope he likes to eat.”

“Mother, _please_.” He ducks his head, cheeks pink, smile bright. “He does.”

“I do.” Llewellyn nods. 

“Good, because there’s also a pie in the oven. Welcome, Llewellyn. I’m very pleased to finally meet the man my son speaks so well of. And I hope I’ll see more of you.”

He looks to Jack, uncertainty and hope clashing in his chest, and beneath the cuts and the bruises, he sees something relaxed. 

“I hope you will.” He says, and he thinks that’s right.


End file.
